


Lament of the Asphodels

by dracox_serdriel



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anthropophobia, Cursed, Dendrophobia, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Description, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Greek Themes, Hylophobia, Minor Character Death, Phobias, Shipwrecks, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Social Anxiety, Social stigmatization, Storms, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, hydrophobia, inner turmoil, storms at sea, thalassophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2018-08-11 06:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 136,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7880425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracox_serdriel/pseuds/dracox_serdriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian Jones is the Keeper of Stagrock Light, the Sole Beacon of Northedge, and he lives a simple life apart from the society he serves. His entire world turns upside-down when a shipwreck leaves him with a stranded woman, the Survivor, or as her parents called her, Emma Swan. </p><p>As she recovers from her ordeal, it becomes clear that she's harboring a painful past and may even be a fugitive from the law seeking refuge in the Northmost Lands. What starts out as a simple attempt to aid someone who has fallen on hard times becomes complicated when they both begin to experience a rush of other memories that might just be from another life. </p><p><em>Lament of the Asphodels</em> contains themes, stories, and motifs found in Greek Mythology, including adult content such as violence, mentions of incest, graphic sexual descriptions, and other content that may be disturbing for some readers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Lyre for Apollo

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers** : _Lament of the Asphodels_ contains reference to events, characters, and themes from all episodes of Once Upon a Time through the end of Season 5A.
> 
>  _Lament of the Asphodels_ was written as part of [Captain Swan Big Bang](http://captainswanbigbang.tumblr.com/) 2016\. Artwork for this work was created by the lovely [LiamJcnes](http://liamjcnes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Check back every Tuesday for two new chapters!

  
  
Artwork by [LiamJcnes](http://liamjcnes.tumblr.com/)  


The fog was so thick that it concealed the rays of the sun from dawn to midday, so the Keeper stood on the south side of the highest parapet, shivering in the cold, wet mists that blinded him as his ears honed in on every foreign sound, listening for any indication of an approaching ship.

There were no horns, trumpets, or cries of terrified mariners. The only sounds were the gentle laps of the rising tide against the stones, the same as it had been the Keeper first took over the care of this rock lighthouse.

The Keeper went inside when the fog cleared, drying his damp skin in an attempt to warm himself from the bitter coldness of the morning. He toweled his hair with one of the cleaner rags. Before he tossed it aside, he saw thick strands of black hair clinging to the coarse fabric, reminding him that he was past due for a trim. He discarded the idea as soon as it occurred to him. His personal hygiene wasn't a priority at the moment. The weather would turn sour by nightfall. He could feel it in his bones.

A great storm approached, and he didn't have much time.

The rowboat was stowed inside from the last storm he weathered nearly two weeks ago, so he carried the vessel, its oars, and several lengths of rope outside to the water's edge. He pushed off and made the familiar journey to Cellar Island, the largest piece of dry land between the lighthouse and the distant harbor of Northedge. It was the only true island near Stagrock Light. The rest were no more than rocks protruding from the water even at high tide.

The Dockmaster delivered supplies each week to Cellar Island. The Keeper never saw anyone coming or going, but he imagined the deliveries required at least two seaworthy people to handle the provisions. They stowed everything in a stormproof cellar, locking up after themselves. The door had but two keys, one in the care of the Dockmaster and the other, the Keeper.

To avoid having to use the dock, which was twice as far from the cellar as the main beach, he rowed in to the sand and tied down to a natural mooring. Then he hurried to the doors, unlocked them, and descended into the cool, dark depths of the underground storage.

If the storm lasted longer than the previous one, he would require comestibles beyond his weekly provisions of fruit, vegetables, meats, and bread. He gathered dried meats, bags of rice, canned milk, and firewood. It took a trio of trips to haul the cargo before he could lock the cellar and move on to stocking the boat, tying each package down to secure it.

The wind picked up as he casted off, so he rowed with haste back to Stagrock. The clouds overhead thickened, blotting out the sun as he arrived. The storm could fall at any moment.

The package-laden rowboat was too heavy to carry stocked, so he rushed a graceless unloading of his cargo. He collected as much as he could hold in his arms without thought to his aching back. He fumbled with the door to the lighthouse, and when he finally unlocked it, he flung it open and stepped inside, allowing the door to slam shut behind him. He carelessly dropped his load inside on the entry floor, racing on to the next pile of supplies. 

He wasn't quick enough, for the rain began to fall before his last trip. For a moment he entertained the idea of simply tying the vessel down outside, sparing himself the task of carrying it inside, but he was neither tired nor foolish enough to hope the rowboat would survive even the quietest of storms. Thus, he made his final trip despite the torrent of rain soaking him to the bone.

He cursed himself for waiting until the fog cleared and again for not being quick enough to avoid the rainfall. Water was already pooling inside the vessel, but there was nothing to be done. Either he brought it inside now, or he abandoned it and lost his only means of transport. 

The Keeper secured the oars with tight knots before lifting the boat upside-down over his head. He screamed, his voice echoing over the ocean in every direction, as the freezing water cascaded over him, drenching what little dry clothing he had. His arms shook from the effort of holding the vessel aloft, and his teeth chattered from the cold that was made doubly worse by the damnable winds.

It wasn't far to the lighthouse door, but the stone upon which Stagrock Light was built had become slippery with rain, and fatigue beguiled his senses. He felt so weak that he was queasy, and it seemed as if every second he continued to keep the boat above him would be the last his body could stand.

The only mercy was that his cargo deflected the rainfall, giving him the modicum of comfort required to force himself to take the next step. If he collapsed now, he would slip into the ocean and drown, assuming he didn't freeze to death first. So he forced himself to take each next step, slowly and carefully, till he reached the door, which fluttered in the buffeting wind.

He wedged his foot in at the base of the door and kicked out, letting the winds pin the door open as he slipped inside and dropped the rowboat in the far corner, cursing himself not leaving an area closer to the door open for the largest and heaviest item he had to bring inside. He was hardly a good man in a storm.

The sound of splintering wood met his ear. The winds had grown stronger, and the hinges of the door couldn't withstand it. Already a pool of water had collected inside, stretching toward his precious cargo at an ominous pace, but he didn't have time to fetch dry rags or to staunch the pool, lest the door become completely free of its hinges and leave his home at the mercy of the storm.

The Keeper stripped his long jacket and his shirt, which were soaked through, and tossed them over the pool in a brilliantly foolish effort to halt the flood that would taint his supplies. He hissed as the chilling winds hit is bare skin as he stepped outside, blindly reaching for the door's inner handle.

He seized it without trouble, but wetness weakened the hold of his right hand. He planted his feet and yanked hard, forcing the door back, but the winds remained unkind, fighting him every inch. He gritted his chattering teeth and growled nonsense words through his pursed lips, thrusting back each step to gain leverage against the elements, a losing game for any mortal man.

It seemed ages had passed by the time he finally dragged the door back to its frame. He wasted no time in latching and barring the door, allowing himself a moment's respite as he collapsed against it to catch his breath. 

The groaning of the sea, the creaking of the lighthouse, and even the wailing of the storm comforted him as he gathered his next breath. And the next. And the next.

Then he caught sight of the puddle on the floor. It had crept passed his shirt and jacket to the beginnings of his provisions. He wasted no effort nor time cursing himself as he moved every dry item away from the encroaching water, nearly throwing several of them to spare them from spoiling. He then moved the tainted provisions to the center of the room on the desperate thought that he had yet time to save them.

Then the Keeper slammed the inner weather doors and barred them twice over from the storm. 

He had a long night's work ahead of him.

He stripped his trousers, shoes, and socks, for wearing them anywhere inside risked spreading wetness to the rest of his home. He left his trousers on the edge of the puddle to slow its spread, knowing that it would buy him precious little time.

He wiped himself down with the palms of his hands, starting with his arms and legs. Water trickled down from his hair, dripping down his torso and to the floor, but there was nothing to be done about it until he had a towel. The coldness numbed his entire body, and every time another drop tumbled down from his head, it felt like fire burning against his skin until numbness replaced it.

Freely dripping despite his best efforts, teeth chattering, and nearly naked, the Keeper ascended the first flight of stairs, passing from the basement-like ground floor into the first true level of the lighthouse, which was marginally warmer than the basement. 

The fire must be burning low by now. 

He grabbed the first dry piece of cloth he saw from the clothesline along the staircase, rubbing it clumsily through his hair. It was only when he drew it away that he realized the rag had oil coating one side. He tossed it aside with a groan, wondering if his luck had turned sour for his sins or for the entertainment of the fates.

He removed his undergarments and rang them out before attaching them to the empty space on the clothesline. He inspected the next article, an undershirt, and it was fortunately both dry and free of oil. He carefully rubbed his body dry before his hair, knowing the oil complicated matters. Afterwards, he ultimately felt dry again, though the freezing cold hadn't abated.

He had to ascend the spiral staircase to find dry garments, thankful that he alone inhabited the lighthouse; otherwise, wandering the inner stairs nude might create an awkward situation for all involved. He selected a heavy pair of socks, heavy undershorts, sturdy trousers, a long-sleeved undershirt, and his heaviest coat.

The Keeper then stepped into the supply closet on the fifth floor and gathered sponges before descending to the basement, pushing himself to step speedily. Unfortunately, the prolonged cold slowed him, and he feared he would be too late to rescue the tainted provisions.

He tended to the puddle first, creating line of sponges that served as a dam to prevent the water from incurring any farther. Then he lined the base of the entrance, though the storm door did its job well, his untimely arrival had enabled the water to collect at the base. He'd have to inspect the threshold and treat it after the storm passed.

The Keeper turned his attention to the dampened cargo. He emptied the first sack and breathed a sigh of relief, for it contained only rice and only a small portion had been affected. He could salvage it all. He would cook his fill tonight and leave the rest spread out in the kitchen to dry. The second sack contained his weekly vegetables and fruits. Everything along the bottom had been saturated and waterlogged, then crushed under the weight of the stock packed above it. He might be able to save some of it, and though he detested the idea, the only way to recoup the crumbled bits at the bottom of the bag was to stew them and hope for the best. Not an entirely appetizing thought, but it would ensure he had nutrition enough for this week and possibly the next. He couldn't afford to waste anything.

He carried the woebegone vegetables and fruits up to the kitchen first, lining the counter with sponges before laying the sack down on top. He stowed everything that seemed even mildly edible, wiping them dry to prevent mold. Then he took the mush from the bottom of the sack and spread it out on plates.

He descended the stairs, over and over again, to haul everything up to the living room and kitchen. He piled the firewood and dropped a log on the dwindling fire, relieved that he need not rekindle it.

The storm clamored louder and louder, and he wondered if it might go on forever. He was being foolish, of course, for nothing lasted forever.

He did his best to soak up the water on the basement floor, depositing the laden sponges into a spare bucket. Dampness clung to the floor, but barring leaks, it would dry overnight.

The Keeper sat on the floor for a moment, aching and weak. He was so fatigued that he nearly fell asleep like that. Thankfully, the loud roaring of his stomach snapped him out of his stupor.

He ascended again, checking the fire and smiling when he saw the flames burning fiercely before continuing to the kitchen. He ate some cheese to quiet his hunger while he prepared the rice and stew, using a serving of dried elk to cover the sullied taste of his lost vegetables and fruits. The bread tempted him, reminding him of just how little he'd eaten for lunch, and he simply couldn't resist. The stew and rice could take hours to cook, but it would keep for as long as he could stomach it.

Thus, he left the stew and took a chunk of cheese, a few slices of bread, and a small bottle of wine to the living room. After setting down his dinner, he removed his heavy coat and draped it over the back of his armchair before taking his seat by the fire. He had at least an hour before the rice would be ready, and here he could warm himself without being tempted to gobble up all the week's bread in one sitting.

The Keeper took small, deliberate bites of his food, chewing at an agonizingly slow pace that his stomach protested. He distracted himself with the tasks he failed to complete due to the hazardous weather conditions.

There was, of course, more than enough work for three people. He knew his days would be far shorter had he been like other men and had a family to assist him. He wondered, fleetingly, if Stagrock Light had always been a single-man lighthouse, and the very idea of someone else being nearby filled him with dread nigh on panic.

He regretted his next bite of bread, as the fear of a hypothetical visitor - or worse, a hypothetical family - made his mouth go dry. He took a deep breath, willing himself to be calm, and when that failed, he took a swig of wine to ease his nerves and help the bread down.

Setting his food aside, he took his face in his hand, smoothing over the rough beard and stubble. He reminded himself, over and over again, that there was no one else here. He had been the only person on Stagrock since as long as he could remember. No one ever visited, as per the Dockmaster's explicit instructions, and communications, like supplies, were exchanged through a message box at Cellar Island.

In fact, the Keeper hadn't seen another living soul since the Dockmaster granted him the title. And with that thought, his stomach wretched and his breathing became labored.

 _Not another_ living _soul_ , he thought. _But the dead have little mercy for those they haunt._

The panic overwhelmed him, making him dizzy with too much air. He reached for his nose, pushing down one nostril, and breathing in the opposite one. Then he switched, breathing out the other. He continued to do this until his mind cleared and his breathing returned to normal.

He checked on the stew and rice, for if the howling wind outside was any indication, this night would go on for a very, very long time.

* * *

The Keeper was thankful that the storm raged on through the night, as the thunder and wind overpowered the whispers of his ghosts, giving him a rare, blissful reprieve from his misery. In fact, despite the difficulties he faced the day previous, he fell into a deep, deep sleep.

He wore a Captain's uniform as he boarded, his head held high, for this ship was his. He came to the bridge and stood at the helm, overlooking his crew, who awaited his orders, each attired in perfect array with backs ramrod straight. His heart swelled with pride as he observed all at his command, for surely there was nothing he desired that was neglected. 

And in the next moment, some unnatural power corrected his foolhardy thought, for a woman came on deck. From where? He cared not. She was dressed in traveling clothes not dissimilar to a soldier, thick leather with coarse accents, yet there was no disguising her beauty. Her long hair caught every ray of the sun, making its color impossible to name, and her face was coyly hidden behind a veil of shadow cast by her hat. 

He bowed to the lady before approaching her, desperate whisk the darkness away from her face, that he might look into her eyes. She extended her hand to him, and he kissed it, as any gentlemen would. But then she took hold of him, her hands on his lapels, bringing him close for a passionate kiss.

The Keeper woke abruptly, but it was no surprise to him. For all the many nightmares he suffered, there was but one dream he ever had, and its variation occurred only in its beginning. He was a baker, a captain, a farmer, a king, the occupation never mattered much, for whatever he did, he always felt total satisfaction and absolute pride at his position, which seemed to be the perfection of life that all men seek. Until the moment his mysterious lady appeared, putting every other wonderful thing to shame with her majesty and splendor. He never had a proper look at her, yet he knew that she was the same woman, the lady of his heart, forever just out of sight, forever just out of reach.

Whenever he dreamt of her, he awoke the next morning refreshed, and today was no exception. He was remiss to leave the comfort and warmth of his blankets, but a full day's work lay ahead of him. So he rose from his bed and began his morning routine. 

He couldn't recall devising such a thing, yet he had done the same thing every morning for as long as he could remember. Still slow with sleep, he stretched his back and torso before moving on to his legs. Then he stepped over to the window. He yanked the curtain out of the way and maneuvered the handle to the outer shutters, clearing the view, that he might see the ocean.

The storm had left behind streaks of red, and though the clouds in the sky were thin, they cast a gray pallor over the entire affair. The ocean seemed a black and thankless nothing beneath a white-gray expanse with only a sliver of red and pink to prove that the world still remained.

It was beautiful.

Of course, the Keeper always believe the view was stunning, whether it be grayed and overcast or alight with too many colors to name. There were days when the only good thing in his life was his first look at the world.

Landlubbers and mariners alike would never guess that the maintenance and upkeep of a lighthouse consisted of a surprisingly long list of tasks, from scrubbing glass panes clear to monitoring and repairing the docks to checking and refreshing the clockwork and other mechanisms that kept the beacon alight. Between the duties of his post and his own care and feeding, labor consumed all the hours of the day with sweat and callouses, but his mornings always possessed a singular kind of stillness that was calming and just ever so slightly sad, allowing him to indulge in a few precious moments of daydreaming.

Thus, every morning, the Keeper stared out the window, and his imagination painted him a moving picture. It was never terribly elaborate. He would view an entire fleet sailing on a clear day or the mountains flanking the rocky shores.

On rare occasion, he would imagine something unfolding, though his vantage point as always very distant. He'd see the Royal Navy in their dress uniforms as they battled an encroaching kraken or sea serpent, or he'd watch as the cavalry charged at the enormous enemy like a dragon or the Stormbringer, who was something of a folk villain in Northedge, a descendant of the Titans who became the Tyrant, calling himself the Northmost King. Having never set eyes on either dragon or Stormbringer, his mind was left to its own devices, conjuring beasts the size of castles, as large as they were legendary.

The Keeper had no reason for such fantasy, for they wrought nothing but peril and distress over fleeting images that existed nowhere but the vault of his mind, where they circled and rotted and rusted. Reason and common sense agreed that he should entirely forego such a wasteful and hindering practice. Each morning, he came to this same conclusion and decided that tomorrow he wouldn't indulge the impulse, yet he knew his resolve on the matter would fail him the next day.

And today was no different.

Not until something troubling occurred, jarring everything out of place. For a few moments, the Keeper stood, perplexed over his sudden discomfort, for the nature of the event had been so subtle as to escape his notice. He had reached over to his left arm, intending to scratch an itch in his left hand.

And there it was.

The Keeper hadn't had a left hand since long before he came to Stagrock. He wore a brace that could support a number of attachments, though the vast majority of those collected dust in his wardrobe, for he only ever wore the hook. The others were meant for formal occasions where it was better form to where a false, gloved hand than his preferred, functional appendage. For him, it was just another reason to avoid such situations entirely.

The incident was disturbing because, though there were times when his missing member caused discomfort and difficulty, he never experienced a phantom itch, not until today.

He considered the implications of something so innocuous, yet he felt that there was more to this new development than reinforcing the old adage of 'everything changes.' He glanced out the window again. The clouds receded, and a little more color returned to his world.

The day may yet be good to him.

He turned to continue his morning routine with dressing himself, but something caught his eye as he turned. He returned to the window and shoved open the delicate glass for a better look, going so far as to lean outside.

It was hard to tell from this height, but it seemed as if the storm brought jetsam and flotsam to the area around the lighthouse. Usually it was driftwood and other things of no consequence, but today he saw a distinct white-and-silver paint with hints of gold. Whatever it was, it kept reflecting the weak rays of the sun, which captured his attention.

He strained his eyes, knowing it was foolishness. He inspected the grounds every morning, which meant whatever it was would soon be within arm's reach, yet he had a strong and unusual urge to identify it without wasting another moment. The contents shifted. A large piece of wood that had golden lettering - LD SWAN - across its broken surface appeared, and next to it, there was a wide, pale object with a broken off handle.

It was the head of a broken oar. 

The initial shock was so overwhelming that he backed away from the open window and fell back onto his bed, his heart rate rising exponentially as his breath escaped him. He struggled to steady his breathing, for this was no time for the Keeper of the lighthouse to shirk his duties.

He couldn't allow his anxiety to consume him, for there had been many occasion when it had, leaving him unconscious for several hours. He pledged to do right by his post, and to do that, the Keeper had to retain some semblance of control.

"Come on, Killian, you old fool," he muttered to himself. "No time to lose your head."

Because for the first time in living memory, there was a shipwreck at Stagrock Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The infant Hermes crafted the first lyre using the shell of a tortoise and the innards of cattle that he had stolen from Apollo. Enraged by the theft, the he asserted his case to Zeus, who supported his claim that Hermes was in the wrong. But then Hermes played the lyre, which enchanted Apollo, the deity of music, so he agreed to trade his cattle for the instrument and, in so doing, became master of the lyre.


	2. The Aleion Plain

  
  
Artwork by [LiamJcnes](http://liamjcnes.tumblr.com/)  


_The night previous in the Great Untamed Ocean,_ the storm raked over the churning ocean, stoking the waves so that they reached heights that towered above land and anything that dared to remain precariously afloat.

_"You're more than a survivor! You're - go! Go now before it's too late!"_

The words echoed in the Survivor's head, the memory somehow loud enough to drown out the din of the tempest. She closed her eyes as she held fast to the ropes that anchored her to the tiny vessel. The boat pitched again, rolling helplessly with the sea, and it occurred to her that those words could be the last she ever heard.

The ship rocked hard to one side, nearly capsizing, forcing her to lean into the motion to keep her seat. Her already knotted stomach wretched involuntarily, forcing her entire body to bend forward at the waist, and she mused over the unexpected boon of her empty stomach.

The rain and wind rallied together, beating against her, intensifying the cold three-fold. Her vestments had long since been soaked through, transmuting the once-protective garments into heavy weights that kept her freezing and wet rather than warm and dry. 

Her entire body trembled as the horizon righted itself, and up and down aligned for a blissful moment before she was spun sideways again.

Lighting erupted from above, casting illumination that was not quite fleeting enough, throwing the chaotic elements into a sharp and bitter relief. It was a wonder that her vessel had yet to be swallowed by the sea.

_"You're more than a survivor!"_

The words coursed through her, steeling her body against the freezing world around her. She was more than a survivor, and for the sake of the man who had told her that - who had faith in her onto the very end - she would outlast the frenzied gale and whatever came after.

* * *

As soon as the storm began to quell, she freed one of the oars, keeping it partially tied to the boat as she attempted to scull the vessel out of the danger zone. She rose to her feet to position the oar, but she immediately dropped to the seat. She was too weak, and the sea too uncertain, for her to stand.

It would be a shame to survive the worst of a storm only to capsize her own vessel on the outskirts of it. She stowed the oar, leaving it loose for her next endeavor. She reached between her legs to the compartment under the seat. She pried it open and slipped her unaided hand inside, snatching the first item she touched.

She nearly cried when she saw the bread roll. She tore into it, reveling in how the dryness of the bread warmed her to her core. With any luck, the rest of her supplies would prove just as wonderful as that first. Her hunger was so fierce that the roll disappeared without conscious thought or effort on her part, though all sensibility pointing to her devouring it.

She was bold enough to take another before closing and securing the hidden compartment. This one she ate more slowly, relishing its lack of salt and its fine, light flavors, but her enjoyment was cut short when the wind picked up and rain picked up abruptly.

She cast a wary glance back the way she came, where the storm still brewed in earnest. She had escaped the worst of it, there was no doubt in that, but she had precious few supplies. She couldn't allow anyone find her adrift, for should anyone escort her to the land of Northedge, she'd find no refuge there. She had to reach the mainland or one of the islands on her own.

She examined her surroundings to discern her bearings. She had neither compass nor sextant, and the clouds blotted out every star overhead. The beginnings of panic drummed up knots in her belly, so she districted herself by taming her wild, unkempt hair, roughly corralling the long golden strands into a tight loop of rope that she had wrapped around her wrist a very, very long time ago. She kept it as both a remembrance and an amulet of protection, for it had been with her the last time she survived the sea driven to madness by a storm.

It had failed her in both regards, so she repurposed it as a hair tie.

She cast her eyes up at the unforgiving sky above, ready to beg for a moment of respite, and as if to answer her unspoken entreaty, the clouds above her thinned, their tears ceasing with their sudden departure. She caught a glimpse of the night sky and spotted the True North Star, which burned bright white ahead, confirming that her journey continued forward, beyond the storm. 

Hope blossomed inside her. She commanded her body to obey her will as she rose to her feet, took hold of the free oar, and set it in the water. She couldn't recall the last time she sculled, but her arms acted of their own accord, as if they remembered what she could not. The certainty of direction gave her strength enough for a dawdling but continuous pace.

She would yet make it to the Northmost Lands.

* * *

The Survivor switched to proper rowing an hour later when the weather was more forgiving. The cold, dull ache of her skin and the restless fatigue of her muscles slowed her progress, but she pressed on through the night.

She saw a lighthouse on the horizon, and the hope it inspired fed every fiber of her being. She forgot her sleepiness when she realized that there were several islands between her and the structure. She need only set foot on one of those tiny slips of land before dawn.

Her body tensed as her vessel approached the isles, most of which were little more than rock protruding from the depths, forcing her to navigate around them in search of a true island. The tension and anxiety returned in full force when she feared that the only place she could land would be the lighthouse itself, which must be kept by someone. If anyone saw her while she was still at sea...

 _No, that won't happen_ , she reassured herself. _It won't. You'll make it. You will make it._

But those thoughts were baseless promises, and there had been too many of those broken in her lifetime for her to trust them. Despair sapped her of her strength and will, allowing the horrible, freezing cold from the storm to dig down into her bones, reminding her that she hadn't been dry for hours. Exhaustion seeped into her muscles as the first rays of sunlight were cast over the water. She closed her eyes to prevent the tears from falling. She was too tired, too cold, and too beaten to carry on.

With her eyes shut, she became incredibly aware of her blistered hands against the oars, and she wonder if the world might not be better off if she simply released them into the sea and allowed the Great Untamed Ocean to do its worst.

Clunk!

Her eyes snapped open as the boat crashed into one of the rocks that poked up from the bottom of the sea, for while she descended into despair, the vessel had drifted with the whims of the tide. The sound echoed across the water, and something inside her - the thing that had already embraced defeat - made it seem as if all the world had heard the collision over the storm not far behind her.

That was when she saw the island.

It was fortuitous, for had the boat not bumped into something and forced her awareness, she never would've seen the scrap of land. It was due east from her position, and soon the sun would blot out the gently lit silhouette before her, concealing the small sprig of fern and trees that proved its worthiness as a landing site.

But just as she saw it - just as the miracle appeared for her - darkness descended, dousing the weak dawn light and throwing everything around her into shadow. There was a single crack of thunder in the distance before it rolled directly above her. The wind returned with undue haste, cutting against her fair skin with unbridled rage and unexpected force.

She doubled her grip on the oars as the rain pelted her. Fear and hopelessness prevented her from the sure and steady strokes she knew she needed to escape the abrupt onslaught of mother nature's devising, but she endured. Her instincts burst to the surface, throwing her into survival mode. She would reach that island if it was the last thing she did. 

She ignored the reality that it very well could be the last thing she achieved.

She increased her pace despite the dangerous obstacles. Whenever she crashed into another protruding rock, she cursed loudly, though for all the world around her, she might've been silent, so boisterous was the storm.

She allowed herself what release verbalization could provide, though not because the din of the storm concealed her voice. Before the rain was buffeted by the wind, but now it poured straight down and collected in the boat. Without the wind and waves casting her to one side or another, she'd have to begin the fruitless endeavor of bailing out a rowboat during a rainstorm.

Crack!

The bow of the boat crashed into a rock dead ahead, throwing her forward from her seat and dangerously loosening her grip from the oars. She shoved off the impediment and continued despite the direness of her situation.

Rain water pooled heavily in the boat, and the crashes had taken their toll like a thousand tiny cuts. The last had fractured the vessel's bow, and the split grew by the second. With her sight obscured, she had no hope of preventing the next collision. It wouldn't be long before the boat was taken from her, whether it sank under the bog of rainwater or broke open for all the sea to enter. And when the vessel fell, it would take what few supplies she had with it.

Her paddling became feverously reckless. She ignored everything down to the ominous scrapping emanating from the floor of the vessel, and she thought of nothing but reaching the island.

Relief returned when she realized her incredible progress. She would make it with the boat, and - 

CRACK!

The starboard side hit another large rock. She pressed against it to free herself, but she couldn't shift the vessel in any direction. Panicked and terrified, she jabbed both oars against it to move backwards, but she was barely a few inches from the stone when the waves threw the boat against it again. 

She stared at her inanimate antagonist, but it wasn't until she changed position of the oars that she realized what had happened. The starboard oar pushed back when she lowered it. She leaned to that side, searching for certainty that she didn't desire, and confirmed that she had run aground. 

The island was close enough to taste. It was dangerous, but she stood and transferred both oars starboard, pushing down with all her strength, that she might lift her boat far enough off the monstrous rock to free herself.

Surprisingly, it was working. She was nearly there.

And then a great wave crashed into her. Her goal had entirely consumed her focus, so the abrupt force caught her wholly unprepared. It sent her forward, into the rock, coating her in salty water as an insult to the injury. Her hands slipped, and in a moment of hasty reaction, she released one oar, allowing the sea to take it as tribute for the storm.

She clutched the remaining oar to her chest as she sank back into her seat. The boat remained stuck, and even if she could free it, she couldn't scull to the island, not with the storm's resurgence. Her eyes burned as tears of frustration mingled with the rain and sea already on her cheeks. Her only way to dry land now was to abandon her vessel, her last lifeline, and swim.

The dread and anger were too much for her, so she distracted herself with preparations. Her garments would not serve her well in the water, for their weight would increase threefold and bog her down. So she stripped layer after layer, leaving nothing but her undergarments, trousers, and lightest shirt. She abandoned her jacket and boots in the water pooling at the bottom of the boat.

She stared at the churning abyss below her, and her nerve failed her. She couldn't throw herself into the sea. 

So she used her heel to kick open the compartment below her seat, vainly seeking supplies. Nearly everything would be spoiled by the onslaught of water, but there was a small waterproof pack inside with a filled water bottle attached. She took the rope that had once tied down the oars and secured the pack to her.

She turned to her surviving oar, and an idea occurred to her. In its current state, it was too long, for it would catch on the stones that erupted from the surface of the water. So, with a twinge of regret, she placed part of it underfoot and stomped again and again until the wood splintered, leaving her with half the length it had before. She tied it to her, just like the pack, and she stood up straight.

She didn't let herself think one more second about it. As soon as her feet were under her, she sprung forward, leaping from the boat into the briny water. Despite the cold she had already endured, the Great Untamed Ocean shocked her with its freezing embrace, consuming her strength as the undertow dragged her down. She held fast to her broken oar for several minutes before she mustered the courage to swim.

The Survivor kicked her bare feet, making a beeline for the dry land ahead as the storm and waves threw her this way and that. Her exposed skin scrapped against rocks, opening her to the sting of the ocean's salt as her blood filled the water. 

Her focus never wavered. She would reach dry land. She would survive this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Aleion Plain, or Plain of Wandering, was where the hero Bellerophon landed when he fell from Pegasus during his daring attempt to fly to Mount Olympus and become a deity.


	3. For the Sustenance of Charon

  
  
Artwork by [LiamJcnes](http://liamjcnes.tumblr.com/)  


The Keeper skipped breakfast and forewent the usual post-storm inspection of the lighthouse. He dressed hastily before descending to the basement mere minutes after he spotted the debris.

He reached for the door handle, and his heart raced as his breath cut short. He staggered back, cursing quietly, only to discover that backing up calmed his fluttering heart.

"Bloody hell."

He tried bullying himself, but he knew it was no use. He hadn't seen or spoken with another living soul since the day he set foot on Stagrock, and there was a reason.

As a young man, Killian had served in the navy, and there was a time when he believed he'd spend the rest of his life on the open seas. Yet those memories had long ago faded into indistinct stories, and he sometimes wondered if he had ever lived out in the world among people.

Now, he could scarcely approach a place that _might_ contain someone without his body betraying him.

_Come on, Killian, you old fool._

There could be someone who required aid that only he could provide, yet the thought did not move him. His fear was stronger than his will.

That was what cowardice was, wasn't it?

All things considered, it was far more likely that he would discover bodies than an injured survivor. The storm had been terrible and lasted until the dawn, and the debris he saw were all from a small vessel. Anyone traveling in something like that in such weather wouldn't live to tell the tale.

His entire body relaxed, and though it disgusted him, he indulged the thought. The Keeper would do his duty, discover any bodies, and inform the Dockmaster so that they could receive a proper burial. 

His breathing returned to normal.

He carried his vessel out, oars and all, meticulously placing it in the sea before taking a moment to survey the effects of the tempest. Nothing was afloat nearby. He pushed off from Stagrock and began his search, gradually increasing the area he circled, but he spotted nothing but jetsam.

There was nothing amiss, so he ventured to Cellar Island and secured the boat to its mooring at the beach. That was when he saw the bloody footprints, which led in the direction of the cellar.

He didn't give himself a chance to think on it - for thinking might immobilize him - but instead barreled forward in a foolhardy rush. There was only one place they could lead, and sure enough, he found himself outside the familiar door. The lock had been smashed open, yet the door remained shut. Whoever did this was no pirate here to divest him of his goods; no, someone had sought shelter, tying the door closed from inside when the lock could no longer hold it shut against the wind. That was the only explanation for why it wasn't ajar or shifting with the breeze.

Someone was inside the cellar.

As he knew it would, the realization sent a wave of numbness over him, freezing him in the kind of stillness that took hours from which to recover. The tracks suggested one person, but he knew precious little about tracking on land. There could be one, or two, or some dozen lodged within.

He suddenly pictured an entire crew of sailors crammed into his supply basement, ready to spread onto Stagrock and press him for shelter till some far away king finally sent ships to bring them home. His mind went blank, and he felt faint.

 _The blood, the blood, remember the blood, you fool,_ he chastised himself.

One person or one hundred, it mattered not. Someone had been injured, and it was his duty to see that that individual survived.

The Keeper stood rooted to the spot outside the cellar, a figure rigid as stone, revealing nothing of the furious war blazing inside him.

* * *

_A very long time ago, in the Northmost Lands,_ the Recluse hid himself in the basement of the harbors' smallest tavern, coming out only in the dead of night to do the thankless chores required to pay off his private residence. He donned a heavy-hooded cloak to cover his face, which prevented many an uninvited conversation.

"You disfigured?" 

It sounded like a passing grunt, so he continued onward, ignoring the question. Alas, the speaker refused to ignore him.

"I said, are you disfigured?" the man repeated, stepping into the Recluse's path.

"After a fashion," the Recluse replied, his mouth drying instantly.

He rustled the left sleeve of his cloak, revealing the hook and brace that stood where his hand should've been.

The speaker let out a hiss while his hand tossed the Recluse's hood back, revealing the unkempt scruff of his dark beard, his unruly hair, and his piercingly blue eyes. The stranger let out a low whistle as he devoured his features. It was as if he were inspecting a horse before the purchase.

The Recluse dragged his hood over his head again. Obscuring his face not only prevented unnecessary attention, but it concealed his eyes, allowing him to discover escape routes without anyone becoming the wiser. He saw it as prudence. 

The smugness of the stranger's face made it clear that he regarded the Recluse's prudence as cowardice. It was a common fault among men in positions of authority. They believed that the power they wielded provided protection. It was obvious folly as far as the Recluse was concerned, for if he were to rake the man over with his hook, spilling blood from his scruffy neck down to his pudgy belly, his power would neither shield him nor stitch his wounds together. 

"You're pretty enough to make your way by your looks," the stranger said crudely.

Someone speaking to him was enough to make the Recluse run, but from his demeanor and response, it seemed as if this man had come looking for him in particular. Fleeing would simply delay whatever came next. 

There were few things he'd fight for, but his life was one of them. He served as a sailor and fought valiantly in his day. He would not meet his end in an alleyway at the hand of some bawdy bureaucrat. That was as sure a fact as his born name was Killian Jones.

"I have much work to do," the Recluse responded.

He made to pass by, but the stranger blocked his path. In that regard alone, his girth served him well.

"People talk about you," the stranger said. "Specifically the Tavern Keeper whose employ you've garnered."

"Aye, what of it?"

"It's not so much what he says about you," the man replied. "As much as what he doesn't say. Never once has the Tavern Keeper complained about you or your work."

"Something of a compliment, then." 

"From him? It's the highest praise," the man continued shrewdly. "Make no mistake, I've known that man since before his first title, back when people called him Blackbeard. If he's breathing, he's complaining. I should know, I worked for him for a time. Nothing was ever good enough."

"Indeed, harrowing."

"Hardly," the stranger said. "I've been told you were once a sailor."

"I was."

"So you know about life at sea?"

"As it was," he replied. "I've not sailed in a very long time and with good reason. If you're looking for a seafaring man, look elsewhere. Now let me pass."

"I'm a man who procures difficult to find things," the stranger replied, not moving one inch. "And as of late, however, I have failed to find the right man for a job."

The Recluse knew men like the one before him. They came in many guises, but there was only one position in this town that would suit a man like this.

"And what would the Dockmaster want with a one-handed former sailor?" the Recluse asked. "As you can see, I'm not much in the way of company these days. Ships aren't sailed by one man alone."

"Indeed not," the Dockmaster replied. "I'm not looking for a dime-a-dozen sailor who'll drink himself stupid while singing a sea chantey. I'm looking for someone who can keep Stagrock."

"The lighthouse?" the Recluse inquired. "The Old Man has kept the beacon for an age."

"Aye, but he sets sail in a fortnight. I've been tasked to find a new Keeper. That would be you."

"I'd be alone?"

"A place with nothing but solitude, reflection, and the sea," the Dockmaster replied. "I hear you dislike the marketplace. Arrangements could be made so you'd never have need to return to the mainland."

"I doubt that I'm suited for the work," the Recluse replied stubbornly. "I am lacking a prominent member. Perhaps it's best for you to let me pass and forget all this."

"Suited or not," the Dockmaster began, his voice suddenly harsh. "Someone like you, who lurks in dark places in the dead of night, hiding himself from others. How long do you think it will take before the people's idle curiosity becomes suspicion? A pretty man like you, sulking around under a hood? Make no mistake, the Northmost Lands are no place for a man without family or friends. He might find himself in dire need of aid, or perhaps taken advantage of in a way no man would ever dare admit, not if he didn't wish it to happen again."

"Unless he were apart from those who would visit such misery upon someone," the Recluse completed. "Laboring for the very people who would perpetrate a shameful crime upon a man who was wounded in service of the navy. Or at least threaten him with such things."

"I procure rare and hard to find items," the Dockmaster repeated. "I am exceptional at it. Make no mistake, Recluse, you will be on Stagrock in a fortnight. How difficult things are before your change in residence is solely up to you. Take the day to think on it. I'll return tomorrow night. But I warn you, if I have to track you down a third time, you will regret it."

The Recluse forced himself to remain calm. He had lived in this town for a long time, and he had spoken with precious few, all by accident. Someone would mistake him for a wayward member of a traveling party, approach him with a friendly greeting, promptly apologize for the confusion, and leave without a second glance. The only exception to this had been the Tavern Keeper, though these days the man left written instructions under the Recluse's door. 

To meet a man so bold as to corner him and threaten life and limb awoke something within that was dark and wild. It was a dangerous kind of anger that had his hand tighten around the handle of his knife.

The Dockmaster gave him a smug grin as jutted his rotund belly forward, adjusting his belt, then his shirt, then his coat. Every movement was composed and unhurried, and as the minutes ticked on, the Recluse saw a glimmer of pleasure in the man's eyes. He relished the fact that he could torment a man with threats and then force him to wait until he was ready to take leave.

Finally, attire righted, the Dockmaster backed away a few paces before turning and walking away.

The Recluse waited for a few moments and gathered his strength. His arms were shaking in fury, and his legs felt heavy. Though there were yet many hours before dawn and he had much to do, his will to do it crumbled. He wasn't fit to hold a hammer, much less repair a wall, and he could not recall a time when such a thing had happened to him before, this sudden weakness sweeping over him.

He made for the tavern, walking with more haste than usual. The knots in his stomach tightened, and he scrambled into a dim alleyway before the retching came in earnest. The contents of his stomach sprayed hard against the brick wall and stone alley, splattering him in a fine mist.

He steadied himself against the wall. He fumbled for one of the rags in his cloak pocket and wiped his mouth, tensing slightly when he felt the course, ragged material against his skin. He continued, cleaning his cloak and boots, and a deep sense of shame overcame him. 

How many people had he seen heaving and hawing in this very alley as he passed by each night? He was certain most were there for the sake of their drinking. As for himself, there was no accounting for it. He hadn't had strong drink since his days as a sailor, and he had felt no sickness, no illness before he began his rounds.

The Recluse carefully folded the dirtied rag and placed it back in his pocket. He had no reason to be ill, save for his conversation with the Dockmaster, and such a reaction was extreme, even for a hermit like himself. While threats to his physical wellbeing were disconcerting, they were hardly cause enough for him to tremble and vomit.

He returned to his quarters swiftly, avoiding any avenue where people were sure to see him. The shame did not abate; in fact, it stiffened and deepened upon his return when he realized how much of the night's work he had left undone. For the first time that he could remember, the Recluse shirked his duties. His sense of honor forced him to scribe a note to the Tavern Keeper. He selected the kindest, most apologetic words and explained that a fever forced him to retire for the night.

The Recluse placed the letter by the Tavern Keeper's door. Then he returned to his bed, still quivering and nauseous. He wondered if his aversion to people had somehow increased during his many years of solitude. If that was true - and he feared it was - then the sudden need for a Keeper at Stagrock was serendipitous, despite the manner in which it was brought to his attention.

Tomorrow, he would speak with the Tavern Keeper and then Dockmaster, for becoming the Keeper of Stagrock Light might be the only way to save his life.

* * *

_On Cellar Island at present,_ the Keeper remained motionless in front of the door for a very, very long time, desperately fighting off his impulse to run. Every moment he stood his ground was a triumph.

Yet, his duty was to any survivors that might be within, and while not fleeing was a personal victory, it wasn't enough to fulfill his oath. The first step was to take the handle and open the door, yet every time he tried, his arm became like lead, too heavy to lift.

When had this become his life? It was after his injury in the navy, though he couldn't rightly recall that incident. The missing member on his left arm was evidence enough, yet the circumstances surrounding its loss escaped him. With certainty, his missing hand was the reason the navy relieved him of duty and discharged him, though he distinctly remembered acquiring his first hook so that he could continue to sail.

It never seemed important enough to dwell on, but the Keeper appreciated the fact that he had once served on a crew, which meant there was a time that anticipating the sight of another person did not make him quiver or freeze. If he could only recall a moment from back then, perhaps he could conjure that version of himself and imbue his current self with that disposition and potency.

The more he considered past events, the less he recollected. It was as if he were remembering a dream upon waking; a thing so delicate and ambiguous that it slipped through the mind as sand through fingers, destined to fade and to be forgotten. What he knew came from scars and other such souvenirs. Everything else was a foggy haze that eluded him the more he pursued it.

It was maddening.

He was certain that if he could remember a time when his courage hadn't failed him, he'd be able to muster his bravery now. The only moments when he was unafraid of others was in his dreams with the mysterious lady of his heart, and only there, as all his other imaginings were nightmares. 

_You've never been brave, you hapless cur. You sailed the seas under the protection of your brother. It wasn't your hand that ended your time at sea, it was his death._

The nagging thought came from somewhere old and deep. Some ancient part of him that never failed to remind him of his faults, lest he forget that he was not the man he was supposed to be. He was not the brave Keeper, rushing to aid the wounded after a storm. He was the cowardly Recluse who abandoned the world so long ago that even his own memory could not say when.

Perhaps he'd been brave once in his life, but those days had passed. There was nothing more to be done about them. Today was an entirely different matter. Having limited or nonexistent experience in the application of bravery was no excuse for cowardice.

Today he would be brave, and not for the sake of his duties nor to prove his position as Keeper. His courage in this moment would be the foothold to his past, to that old part of himself that had frayed and decayed.

His hand surged forward, and he grasped the handle of the door in a strong but shaky grip. So often was his visitation of this cellar that the rest occurred without thought, so that when he was met with resistance, he was more confused than startled. 

Without pause or consideration, he swung his hook up, then down through the space between the door and its frame. It caught on something below the inside handle, and he pulled against it until he heard a tearing sound that was oddly satisfying to his ear. Once free of its binding, the door swung open, and he crossed the threshold with ease.

The Keeper had assumed that he'd sweat every footstep, but instead he sensed a lightness akin to parting with a heavy pack that had been shouldered too long. Though he thought not on it directly, some sleeping aspect within considered the nature of such a shift and could not conclude that it was for ill or naught, which left but one possibility that even the most private element inside himself dared not contemplate: the betterment of a man.

On some level he sensed all his own inner workings, but the Keeper's focus did not falter from the task at hand. Once he saw that the footprints inside were of bare feet and stained with blood, his single-mindedness became absolute. He followed their path to the back of the cellar, where upturned baskets and mislaid comestibles assured him that whoever stumbled inside was in a bad way.

He noticed a skein of uncut cloth was missing, along with a bag of rice, a measure of dried meat, and a handful of bandages and other wound treatment supplies.

He imagined an Old Salt, too stubborn to die when he was marooned in a storm, and he wondered if the man he pictured was in the form of one of the many sailors with whom he served. He doubted it, for how could he remember another sailor when the Keeper couldn't properly recall anything from those days?

In the back of the cellar, there was a lump on the floor, which appeared to be covered with rice, though his initial assessment was that his eyes had failed him. He stared in confusion at the shapeless mass for several minutes before he understood that the long, golden lines on one side were locks of hair and the radiant white that stood out in harsh contrast to the patching linens piled on top was fair skin.

Yet it wasn't until the lid of an eye pulled back and revealed an orb the color of jade that he realized the shipwreck survivor was woman. Had he wits about him, he would've observed far more about her, but all he could think was that, even in her present disarray, she was the most beautiful woman alive.

"Are you alive?" he asked. He immediately regretted the stupidity of his question. "You must require aid. I can - "

He did not have the opportunity to finish his introduction, for the woman reacted like lightning against the rain. The pile of cloths were abandoned, and she rolled to one side before her feet hit the ground. It took only a moment thereafter for her to grab his hair and put a knife to his throat.

"Am I in the Northmost Lands?" she demanded.

"Yes," he replied calmly.

"Where?"

"Cellar Island," he replied. "It serves as the stock and store for Stagrock Light, where I serve as Keeper."

Her grip tightened, and the point of the knife dug into his skin slightly. Her arm shook but not from fear or reticence, which reflected in her comportment and diction.

"Are you a bounty hunter?" she asked again.

"As I said, I am the Keeper of Stagrock Light, the sole Beacon of Northedge."

"Are you a bounty hunter?"

He scoffed. "Why bother asking? You've decided who and what I am, if you knife is any indication."

"I can tell when someone lies outright," she replied. "Answer me!"

"No, I am not a bounty hunter."

The knife left his throat, and she released him, stepping carefully back the way she came. She held the dagger aloft, as if she yet expected him to harm her.

The Keeper had no way of knowing what transpired in her mind. In fact, she herself could not describe the many thoughts colliding in her head.

"I've recently become no one," she said, not quite looking at him. "I was... it doesn't matter. I'm not any longer, and I'll never be again."

She had meant to explain everything to the Keeper, but the freezing cold and the injuries from her storm-swept retreat to shore depleted her strength and stamina. She hadn't noticed until her arm went slack without her intent.

The blade clattered to the floor, and the Keeper, taking it as a sign that she had extended him her trust, smiled at her with his maddeningly lithe lips. His eyes, bluer than the Great Untamed Ocean, lit up with warmth, as if hospitality was common practice for those lonely souls who keep the beacons alight.

That all ceased when her legs failed her, and she followed the weapon to the floor. The Keeper nimbly swooped in, catching her midsection and easing her the rest of her way. He had a kindness to him that contradicted his fierce countenance and hook, yet she had no trust for strangers. She went deep, seeking the determination to right herself, but there was none. She was utterly at his mercy. The terror that thought inspired made her heart race with anxiety.

"You were out in that storm?" he asked. "You need only nod your head, or blink your eyes twice."

She blinked twice.

"Were you on an island?"

She didn't respond.

"On a ship?"

She blinked twice, and she added, "It went down. The ship."

"Listen to me," he said calmly. "I've weathered too many storms to count, and for you to arrive here after being caught in a gale like that, aboard a ship, no less... you're a survivor. The Survivor. The only one who has made it to Stagrock after a shipwreck. The only one I've ever been able to save, and I intend to do just that. Lie back and rest."

The Survivor blinked two times, but she didn't believe it. After everything she endured, the idea that there may yet be an honest and true person in the world seemed an impossibility. But she could perceive deception, and she found none in him. He spoke the truth and promised his services genuinely. 

Perhaps that was what gave her the strength to stop fighting. Terror and pain gnawed at her heart, yet she closed her eyes and let the blackness overtake her with nothing more than the faint hope that the Keeper was as true as his word.

The Keeper had no knowledge of her inner struggle, though it was apparent that a shipwreck had been the least of her ills. He put it out of his mind to tend to her wounds. He had a long day ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charon ferries newly deceased (and occasionally, living) souls across the rivers that divide the Underworld. Charon's obol refers to a coin that is placed in the mouth of a deceased person during burial, that they may pay or bribe the ferryman to transport them safely.


	4. In Memory of Charybdis

  
  
Artwork by [LiamJcnes](http://liamjcnes.tumblr.com/)  


_A very long time ago in the Midlands_ , the Flying Monkey closed for the night, and after the last staff member bade a cherry good night and took leave, the atmosphere descended into stiffness and stillness. The Barkeep disliked his own pub afterhours, for when it was empty, it possessed all the charm of an abandoned warehouse with the scent of a decrepit brewery's latrine. He only tolerated it when absolute necessity demanded it of him, which, as it happened, included tonight.

Of course, modifying his schedule to mirror that of the Sheriff was far from essential. Perhaps that was why he never told another soul about it, that he might avoid tiresome lectures or overzealous advice. Some time ago, the Sheriff began to frequent the pub on Thursday nights, and not long after, the Barkeep shifted his weekly duties to that same night. A handful of employees remarked upon it once or twice, but no one ever asked outright about it.

He decided this was because his change had been executed with tact and stealth, but truth be told, there was not a soul in New Brook that failed to notice. No one asked because the reason was exceedingly obvious.

The Sheriff was a beautiful woman. Her eyes were a soft, warm green, and her hair was golden-blond, matching the pale beauty of her skin. Her stunning appearance complemented her assertive approach to her position, and there was not a person in New Brook nor the surrounding towns who did not know and respect her. The Mayor and the Judge of New Brook adopted her two years after the birth of their fourth son. People said that she was reared for her position. Her father, the Mayor, imparted his leadership skills, and her mother, the Judge, imbued her with a passion for law and a sense of consummate fairness. 

There was no bachelor or maiden seeking a wife that did not harbor the dream of marriage to the Sheriff, so the Barkeep's less than cunning attempt to spend some measure of time with her was quite commonplace. Every man and woman found an appropriate (and in some instances, inappropriate) manner to vie for her affection, though the Sheriff had long avoided and dismissed matrimony.

Indeed, there were whispers (and never anything louder, out of fear or respect, no one could say with certainty) that her resistance to nuptials had been born from tragedy, for there was one black spot on the otherwise unmarred life of the fair Sheriff of New Brook. 

As the story went, long before the Barkeep relocated and opened the Flying Monkey, there was a terrible storm up the coast. So sudden was its approach that none suspected its danger until the eleventh hour. The Midlands rarely experienced such an abrupt reproach from nature, so the day was marked by all those who lived to remember it.

It was so long ago, in fact, that the Sheriff was but a First Deputy preparing for her current position. At that time, a young man took up residence in New Brook under the title of the Locksmith. Rumors of the man's checkered and sordid past lingered in certain circles, but they failed to discourage the Sheriff, who reciprocated his affections to some degree, which in and of itself was a noteworthy event for New Brook's gossip mill. The couple departed for a romantic vacation aboard the Sheriff's family ship, _The Yellow Bug_ , two days before the worst storm in Midlands history. They were aboard that very vessel when the winds fell, but what transpired during that tempest remained ever a mystery. 

Some facts never came under question, however. The first was that _The Yellow Bug_ went down that night in violent disarray, and what little of the ship that was recovered stood in evidence of such a catastrophe. The second was that the Sheriff survived, and the third, that the Locksmith did not.

The Sheriff herself admitted to ignorance on most of the night's events, and many dismissed this aberration of her character as a result of trauma, dehydration, hypothermia, exposure, and other such physical phenomenon that inhibit the strongest minds and fiercest memories. She recalled that she and the Locksmith escaped _The Yellow Bug_ on a lifeboat only for it to fall prey to the same relentless storm and sink into the sea.

Without a vessel, they were sure to drown, but as chance would have it, part of the lifeboat remained aloft and afloat. It was not large enough to fit them both, let alone serve as a means to shore, but it could suspend one person above the water. As the Sheriff recounted it, they took turns sleeping for a few hours at a time while the other kept watch for anyone who might save them.

Unfortunately, even after the wind and rain stopped, it took nearly a full day for a formal search to be mounted, so by the time a rescue crew spotted a makeshift craft in the Endless Sea, there was only the Sheriff, alone and very near death. Most of the crew insisted that she was unconscious for the duration of transport and remained so even after they delivered her to shore and the doctors took charge of her. Yet at least one - and most importantly, the one who was the Bayman or who had served as a Loblolly boy, depending on the account - reported that, during the time she was under his medical care, she spoke lucidly about the events leading up to the Locksmith's death. Whatever she said was so horrible that the man who heard it refused to repeat it, even when the Sheriff herself entreated him to do so years after her recovery.

Whatever the events aboard _The Yellow Bug_ that led to the death of the Locksmith, the Sheriff had survived. It took two months for her to recuperate physically, and many more beyond that before she resumed her duties as First Deputy. She overcame the stigma and guilt surrounding the tragedy, and in the years thereafter, she had something of a meteoric rise to Sheriff. 

There was not one person who could question her abilities or dedication to her position, yet all battles mar their survivors with one scar or another. The Sheriff was no exception, for to this day, a crippling fear of the ocean haunted her. It was so severe that simply looking at the coastline triggered paralysis-inducing terror that, as rumor had it, required a full day in the hospital for her recovery.

Moreover, to this day, the wreck of _The Yellow Bug_ and demise of the Locksmith remained a matter of mystery. In the countless years since, it became something of a curiosity to sleuth hobbyists and their ilk, and whenever the topics of local gossip became sparse, there was always some excuse to return to New Brook's favorite unsolved tragedy.

The Barkeep had been privy to the story second and third hand, as people in his position were oft spoken to more freely than friends or confidants. When the Flying Monkey first began operation, the locals assumed that an outsider would fail to acclimate, and none saw any reason to hide their opinion from him or one another. Reliable employees had been rare as diamonds in those days, and on far too many occasions, he stood in as bartender. Though he'd never admit it, his time pouring drinks was a blessing, as it granted him insight into the town and its residents that an outsider would otherwise never obtain.

More importantly, it made his choice to assist his bartender from time to time an unremarkable event, which, in turn, afforded him several intimate conversations with the Sheriff. No one would ever regard her as loquacious, but after a few shots of bourbon or stiff gin and tonic, she'd provide her own harrowing tales the likes of which only the Sheriff of large-yet-seemingly-small town had to offer.

The Barkeep glanced at clock, though his internal timepiece already afforded him the awareness that it was far too late to expect the Sheriff to saunter in under one pretense or another. Yet he couldn't bring himself to accept it and retire home for the night.

The minutes ticked by, and anger crept into his heart, overtaking the genteel aspects of resignation and disappointment. The Sheriff always came into the Flying Monkey on Thursday, yet he'd only seen her twice in the past three months. The rumor mill was astoundingly silent in regards to the Sheriff's personal life, yet there was likewise nothing in the way of news that explained her absence, such as an no investigation that consumed all her time and energy.

The Barkeep hadn't realized he'd been pacing until he attempted yet another glance at the clock. He never stayed until such a late hour, and the only thing left to do was retire for the night and hope that, next week, everything would return to normal.

"Damn it, Emma," he muttered.

The tension in his shoulders and neck ebbed and eased, for he gained a measure of satisfaction from the intimate act of speaking her born name. Only blood relations and the most cherished of companions - lovers or spouses - ever referred to someone by the name his or her parents gave them at birth. That was how he saw the two of them: deeply connected in a way beyond friendship.

He satisfied his closing ritual in record time, locking the doors minutes later. He marched up the hill toward his home, the night's beautiful silence wholly unnoticed as his mind continued to think about the Sheriff.

The Barkeep had a reputation as a stern employer - a necessity borne from the earliest years of his enterprise - but, on a less formal note, he was widely regarded as a good-mannered and pleasant man who kept more than his fair share of secrets. His affections for the Sheriff was hardly clandestine, yet the same could be said of countless suitors. To her, he had always been the friendly bartender pouring the next round and that was entirely his fault.

He had waited in the shadows for some indication of her interest, and whenever she flashed him an unearned smile or tipped an immodest flirtation his way, he responded with playful coyness on the inane and antiquated idea that mystery made him desirable.

 _You can't let her go without a fight, Walsh,_ he thought.

The Barkeep had no way of knowing that at that very moment, the Sheriff was neither alone at home nor fulfilling her duties. He was entirely unaware that the competition for the Sheriff's heart had already begun in earnest, for not three months previous, the Bailiff started courting her discreetly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Greek mythology, Charybdis was a sea monster that embodied a whirlpool, which captured ships from the Strait of Messina. 
> 
> **Bayman** was a common title for someone who manned the sickbay of a sea-bound vessel, especially a warship, with duties similar to those of a nurse at a hospital.
> 
>  **Loblolly boy** was a common title for the same position, predating Bayman by several decades.


	5. The Ills of Asclepius

  
  
Artwork by [LiamJcnes](http://liamjcnes.tumblr.com/)  


The Keeper labored over the Survivor's wounds for several hours after she passed out. He had little in the way of anesthetic, so, in that respect, her blackout was a boon, as it enabled him to clean her wounds without witnessing her discomfort.

Remarkably, she had little more than a few scrapes and bruises, which was a minor miracle. He saw no sign of broken bones or any indication of the kind of grievous injuries that require a doctor's care. Her arms were in a particularly bad way, raw and bleeding as if she had fallen on and crawled over broken glass. He had incurred injuries similar wounds when swimming along the bluff and in the treacherous shallows near Cellar Island.

He had thought her blessed previously, but now he had absolute proof. She had been aboard a ship that a monstrosity of a storm chased into the ocean's gullet, thrown into raging waters littered with dangerous rocks, and yet the Survivor not only escaped to shore but also found and secured shelter. 

She was an absolute marvel if not a complete mystery to him. She had covered herself with rice, which was either a very strange custom or an act borne from delirium. He first noticed it when he began to inspect her head, and it took considerably longer to examine her scalp, as he had to comb knots and rice from her long locks.

Mercifully, she had no head wound; the blood on her face and neck had seemingly transferred from her arms. He felt warmth flood his face as he started to examine her torso. It was foolish, but it seemed poor form to lift her shirt or lower her trousers whilst she was unconscious. He was aware that he would have to at some point, for any untended wound was another opportunity for the rot or blood loss to take her as tribute to the tempest.

The blood on her attire was bright red. Had she been impaled or sliced open, the blood would've been a much darker, deeper red, so he concluded her injuries were superficial. Therefore, there was no need to remove her garments.

Then he spotted the darkened red around the ankles of her trousers, and he cursed under his breath for not examining her feet first for the sake of the bloodied footprints. The most worrying element was that they still bled; she must've reopened them during their rather harsh introduction.

The Keeper wiped the blood away with a damp rag, revealing the many jagged cuts from toe to heel. The true culprit of the bleeding, however, was the debris - glass and pebbles - embedded in her fair skin along the side of her foot. Her left leg also had a deep cut by the ankle that required stitching.

"Bloody hell."

He would have to debride and clean the wounds and stitch the cut on her leg before he could bandage her feet.

He had a well-practiced reef knot from the many times he had to attend to his own injuries, but he had yet to stitch somebody else's wounds one-handed. It would likely leave a scar on her otherwise perfect skin, where a doctor's more practiced hand would provide seamless healing, but his real concern resided in the possibility of her waking. It would be a wonder if she didn't rise during the agonizing debridement, and if that failed to rouse her, the burn of the alcohol or the continuous piercing of the needle would surely succeed. 

The Keeper gathered what he needed: a basin, bandages, silk thread, a binding needle, tweezers, a small knife, soap, and a bottle of rum. Before he began working, he cast a glance to the Survivor's face, forcing himself to remember that the life of this amazing woman was at stake. Though the thought didn't ease his anxiety, it steadied his hand, and he went to work with a furrowed brow and a focused mind.

He noticed nothing from her other than the steady, ragged sound of her breathing. From time to time, a particularly violent intake of air would stay his hand and draw his attention to see if the pain had finally awoken her, but she remained resolutely still and unconscious, enabling him to continue uninhibited. 

It was after he lowered her feet to soak in the basin that her muttering reached his ears.

He pressed the back of his hand against her forehead to check for signs of a fever, but her skin was cool to the touch. He cursed himself as he covered her with the layers of cloth that had fallen to the floor when his arrival had forced her to abandon her makeshift recovery bed. He had been so worried about infection and stitches that he forewent common sense and failed to keep her warm.

It didn't help that he only stored spare sailcloth and the fabrics required to mend clothing in the cellar. Everything else he kept laundered on Stagrock, including the heavy blankets. He already commandeered the small stockpile of towels he stored by the cellar door for the task at hand. The best he could do was neatly layer the dry fabrics over her and hope it was enough.

Had he his wits about him, he would've carried her to the rowboat and transported her to Stagrock to treat the rest of her injuries, where he had all the requisite materials at his disposal, including a roaring fire. As it happened, however, he had already submerged her feet, and the solution within required at least a half hour of soaking to provide relief and remedy. Transporting her now would be fruitless, so the Keeper went to the south side of the cellar, where the old fireplace and chimney stood. He hadn't used either for many years, back when a particularly cold winter forced him to retreat to the cellar for nearly three weeks during a snowstorm. 

Good firewood was in stock, but the flute was blocked. Most of the blockage crashed inside when he jimmied the lever, but he needed to pass a rake through it to clear it fully. With any luck, he'd have the beginnings of a fire before it was time to start stitching.

 

It took him longer than he expected to clear the chimney, and upon his return, he discovered that her whispering had grown into full, incomprehensible muttering with the occasional interrupting from the chattering of her teeth.

He took off his long coat and covered her with it. He removed his sweater next, wrapping it around her head. He dried her feet and shifted the layers down so she'd be covered while he stoked the fire to full flame. It took longer than he'd like - as many urgent tasks did for a one-handed man - but once the flames erupted in earnest, he turned his full attention to debriding her wounds before moving on to stitching.

At some point, her muttering had slowed and then drawn to a close, and he desperately hoped that she was blissfully unaware of his clumsy treatment. By the time he finished suturing, his entire body was stiff from the awkward position and the meticulous, repetitive motions the stitching required. 

Though he ached, he didn't stop to rest or to stretch; instead, he applied a medicinal salve over the abused soles of her feet and bandaged them.

He examined her arms, which had only minor scrapes and scratches, but to be safe, he wiped each one clean and began applying dressings.

"They're all after me," she said quietly.

He jolted from the unexpected words, but when his eyes fell upon her face, he saw that she yet slept on.

"All of them. After me."

"Who?" he asked in a soft voice, unsure of how else to respond. "Who is after you?"

"Everyone," she replied, her voice hushed with a startlingly clear note of terror. "They have no faces."

She spoke lucidly, though it was plain she wasn't awake. From the things she said - people with no faces, shadows and monsters in pursuit - her dreams were none too pleasant.

"You know I hate flowers," she said sharply, her volume increasing. "Or you should. You should know by now."

He attempted to ignore the Survivor's chatter, but her voice kept changing tone and volume, sometimes barely an audible whisper, at other times a screeching shout of condemnation.

"I never promised you that," she continued. "You both knew. I never hid it from either of you. Why is it suddenly a problem now?"

Her inane ramblings progressed into a kind of one-sided dialogue. It was odd. There were pauses where he surmised the other, imaginary person must be speaking, yet he couldn't conceive the full conversation. He dismissed it as best he could so he could finish dressing her wounds.

"Why am I not surprised?" she asked, her voice low and gruff. "I should've known you would throw that in my face. You're the only one who'd do that."

That made his heart stop. 

"If you loved me, you wouldn't do this to me. That's not love," she said.

Her once-strong voice trembled and cracked, and the sound reverberated in his heart, filling it with a deep, unshakable ache.

He finished dressing her arms, tucking them under the layered fabrics. His work completed, he stood up and walked over to the fireplace, where he paced to stretch his tired legs. The Survivor's words became more erratic and emotional; one minute, full of anger and rage, and the next, fear and sadness.

For some reason, her somniloquy compelled an ancient urge to flee, to escape the words flooding the world from her lips. He felt like a wild animal in a trap, aware that at any moment the hunter may return with the fatal blow not far behind, yet unable to free himself. It was as if the Survivor's mutterings were steel bars all around him, coming closer with each new phrase.

The Keeper stormed out of the cellar, leaving the door opened as he bent forward and placed his hands on his knees, gulping down the salty breeze for fresh air. The sunlight proved a surprising remedy, though its savory salve was tainted by the knowledge that it was but a few hours before sunset, which would leave him without reprieve until dawn.

He and the Survivor had much in common, for she was just as haunted as he.

* * *

The Survivor's awareness gradually increased, though the exact state of circumstances escaped her. Every time she forced her eyes open, she found herself at home in bed, and not alone.

It was an illusion, or something akin to one, for though she tried to speak, tried to explain, the conversations and arguments repeated just as she remembered with no variation. The Bailiff promised to protect her as they traveled to safety, refusing to remain behind and wash his hands of her. The Barkeep accused her of the tragedy that she barely survived, claiming he collected false evidence to prove her innocence, but instead, it verified her guilt.

The Locksmith repeated the accusation, his hollow cheeks pale with death and his eyes like empty never-ending blackness. He was invisible to all but her, a ghost hovering behind the Barkeep. At first she refused to look at the ghastly visage, focusing resolutely on the living man before her. He was angry about their relationship, or lack thereof, and he wanted to hurt her. He went looking for anything he could use against her, and he found it.

"This need not come to light," the Barkeep assured her. "I am the only one who knows. If there is any truth to this, speak now. Confess. I will vault everything. I will protect you, Emma. You need not hide anything from me. We can still be together, no matter what you've done."

" _The Yellow Bug_ went down in a storm, and it nearly took my life," she replied. "I nearly died."

"Nearly," he said. "You lived, and the Locksmith did not. Who would blame you for casting him off the only driftwood to save yourself?"

"I would," she said. "I would blame myself! It wouldn't be a secret."

"How can I know?" he demanded, getting to his feet. "The man I hired to recover facts about the shipwreck tells me that reports of _The Yellow Bug_ put her within reach of the harbor before the worst part of the storm blew in, but you remained at sea."

"Reports?" she repeated. "You mean reports and stories that the original search failed to find? Sightings that no one mentioned in all the years since the worst storm in Midland's history. And you believe them?"

"People often find what they seek," he said. "The search and investigation only wanted to find you both living. When they failed, they only cared to end everything quickly. Who was some Locksmith compared to the daughter of the Mayor and the Judge?"

"People find what they look for," she replied, deftly repeating his own point. "You went looking for a reason to condemn me. Tell me why."

"I love you," the Barkeep replied. "I've loved you for a long time. I've been patient."

"You want to hurt me."

"No, no, no," he said. "I want to understand you. Why deny yourself happiness and security? Not for some spare affections form that tousle-haired Bailiff. He can't possibly be what's keeping us apart."

"I never promised you anything," she snapped. "You both knew. I never hid it from either of you. We're just dating, Walsh. That's it."

The argument erupted as it had a dozen times before, only this time her voice was lost in the enraged ranting of the Barkeep. That wasn't right. He had gotten her ire up, and she had yelled back in equal force.

And she had been standing. 

She took in a sharp intake of breath when she shifted and experienced a radiating pain from her leg. It was enough to distract her from the horrible wrath plastered across the Barkeep's face. She turned away only for her eyes to fall on the semi-transparent image of the Locksmith.

It had happened so long ago that the Survivor could not rightly recall what he looked like. She could barely remember his face and his eyes. 

The memory of his dark brown hair and eyes made her blink. She hadn't known that moments ago, yet the image of his face and the sound of his voice returned to her as if they had spoken only yesterday. She glanced up at the ghostly mirage before her, horrified to discover his true form.

The Locksmith was faceless.

"His name was Neal," she said.

As if she'd spoken an incantation, the illusion before her vanished in a swirl of smoke and rain. She blinked several times, her eyes stinging from dryness. Her entire body ached.

She wasn't in her bed at home. She was on a hard, cold floor in a makeshift cot. From the smoke, she could tell a fire burned nearby. 

She shifted only to have her skin protest even the tiniest movement. It felt unnaturally tight, like she had been salted dry rather than kissed by the sun. Her feet, on the other hand, throbbed from misuse. She peered down and saw stitches and bandages.

Everything came back to her in a rush. The Barkeep's accusation, the Bailiff's promise, her escape to Northedge, the storm.

The storm.

 _No, not_ that _storm_ , she reminded herself firmly.

Her recollection of _The Yellow Bug_ going down had been little more than a sense of dread in the swirling winds, followed by hours freezing in the water, waiting and terrified. But now some fractured memories returned: laughing with the Locksmith on the deck under the sun, the news of the storm coming after the wind and rain began, the terrible moment when she realized the ship was taking on water.

She closed her eyes to make it stop. Did those things really happen? Or was she conflating her latest brush with death on the high seas with the her first sea tragedy?

The Survivor sat up straight. She hadn't been well enough to tend to her wounds, let alone stitch up her leg. Someone else must've done it.

As if to answer her thought, a man appeared out of the shadows. He wore a simple undershirt tucked into a pair of dark trousers, which were held up by a belt. She vaguely registered the fact that his figure was pleasing to the eye: slender and muscular. The otherwise perfect symmetry of the man was marred solely by the brace worn on his left arm, which secured a hook in place of a hand.

They had spoken before. She had a knife to his throat at the time.

"Are you awake?" he asked, his voice softer than she expected.

She meant to answer him immediately, but his face captured her attention, distracting her. His white skin contrasted his charcoal facial hair and the matching, somewhat wild mop atop his head. But even that failed to compare to the way his eyes lit up fiercely against his other features, both light and dark. They were bluer than the sky or the ocean at any time of year. If she had to name something similar to their color, her only recourse would be that one star whose name she could not recall, though anyone living would know which one she meant. Unlike all its siblings who burned white or red, this one shined with nothing but the brightest, clearest blue in the night sky.

It was as if that star had fallen from the sky and settled in the heart of his eyes, gleaming onto her from somewhere deep within.

"Are you awake?" he repeated, coming closer.

She replied, "I'm awake."

He sat down on the floor beyond an arm's reach, his star-shining eyes brimming with concern and curiosity.

"We spoke briefly before you passed out," he continued. "Do you remember?"

She nodded her head, yes.

"I'm the Keeper of Stagrock Light," he said. "You're inside the lighthouse's storage cellar."

"I made it to the island," she said quietly. "I had to swim, and I could barely see, but I made it. I had to break the lock, it was the only shelter."

"I understand," he replied. "You tied a line to keep the door shut, which saved the supplies. For that, I'm grateful and in your debt."

"They were only compromised because of me," she said. "You treated my wounds?"

"As best I could. I thought to move you to Stagrock, but you were in no state. So I treated you here."

"Thank you."

"No thanks required," he replied. "It was my duty and my honor. In a few days, you'll be fit to return home."

"Home?"

"To the Northedge mainland," he said. "You were quite adamant about the locale."

"Yes, I apologize," she replied. "I wasn't thinking clearly. I was afraid."

"Understandably so."

"Do you mind if I ask, what is your name?"

"I don't mind at all," he replied jovially. "Anyone who's drawn my blood has a right to know my born name. Killian Jones, at your service."

She smiled weakly at him, for though she had threatened his life mere hours ago, he spoke with genuine kindness, as if it were custom to make introductions over a knife's edge. If anyone had ever earned the right to learn her born name upon first meeting, surely it was the Keeper.

"I'm Emma Swan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asclepius was the Greek deity of healing.


	6. With the Blessings of Aether

The Keeper offered the Survivor a room at Stagrock Light, but she politely refused under the guise of imposition. When he insisted that it was no burden, she confessed to her paralyzing terror of the ocean, which surely had increased tenfold in its voracity since her most recent experience with the sea. With that explanation, he relented, for he knew the kind of fear of which she spoke all too well. There was no doubt in his mind that she had lived through that familiar hell; had she said the word 'people' in place of 'ocean,' the declaration could've come from his own lips.

Thus, the Keeper gathered supplies from the lighthouse, including a mobile cot, heavy blankets, and various garments, the likes of which were too large for the Survivor. As he never had need for the finer things in this life, he had no hairbrush, makeup, nor perfume to offer her, only a sturdy comb and a thick salve that he used when his skin burned under the harsh rays of the sun.

She neither complained about the provisions nor requested anything to augment them. The comb untangled the knots in her hair, and the ointment soothed her reddened skin, which happily did not peel but simply healed after the natural course.

"I can bring you a proper supper," he offered on the second night. "I imagine you've grown tired of dry rice."

She responded with an inquisitive expression.

"When I found you, you were covered in rice," he said.

"I needed to use the towels for blankets," she explained. "But I was soaking wet. I used the rice to dry off."

The features of his face shifted from confusion to interest, as if he'd never heard of such a thing before, though in the Midlands, it was a common enough practice, particularly when salt was in short supply. To avoid any speculation that might lead to inquiries about her past, the Survivor changed the subject.

"Are there many that get stranded here during storms?" she asked.

"Hardly," he replied. "You are the first since I became Keeper, which was a very long time ago."

"So, you've never helped anyone return to the mainland before?"

"Never had the honor," he replied simply. "Worry not. Though I may have limited experience, I assure you that the Dockmaster will know exactly what to do."

The Keeper spoke with confidence so as to put her mind at ease, and she appeared to relax marginally, which, given the circumstances, was an incredible feat.

There was no way for him to know that the opposite had transpired. The Survivor had landed on the shores of Northedge, and once someone's feet were planted there, none in the world had the right to uproot them. She never had occasion to inquire after the exact act of acquiring refuge in the Northmost Lands. It had always been a far-flung story to her, a song for others to sing.

What if this Dockmaster swindled her? The position was rarely filled by honest people, and the only means to return to the mainland was by sea. What if he threatened to intercept her vessel? She had no coin to pay him off nor anything of value to offer him as payment.

The Keeper was an honest man, so if he promised her his aid, he would give it. There was no way for her to know if he would keep his word once he knew the truth. He might well reject her and send her out to sea himself if he objected to her circumstances. The Northmost Land were known for their lawlessness, or rather, for enacting their own sense of justice rather than appealing to the law.

"I would like some more time to recover before returning," she said. "Before anyone knows I'm here."

"Surely your loved ones fear for your life and safety," he replied. "Even if you don't return immediately, we can send word, put their minds at ease."

The suggestion was like a punch to the gut, and she failed to conceal her reaction.

"I meant no offense," he added.

"It's not your fault," she said. "I hadn't told you that all my loved ones are dead. I have no one to send word to."

"Neither do I," he replied. "I take it from your expression that this is rather a new development?"

She nodded her head, yes.

She intrigued the Keeper. At first he thought his interest was simple attraction to her beauty, but by the end of her second day on Cellar Island, he realized it went far beyond that. Her company touched him deeply, pleasing him and inspiring him.

He couldn't remember a time when he found anybody's company pleasant, let alone enthralling.

* * *

The Survivor remained in the cellar for three days, excusing herself from every invitation to even the briefest of leaves, varying her reason each time. Her feet ached too much. She was too cold without the blankets. She had no desire to see the sun.

But on the morning of the fourth day, the Keeper offered her his arm and refused to exit the cellar without her.

"After a storm, the Dockmaster sends emergency supplies," he explained. "The deliveries are made directly to the cellar, where I am expected to provide any requests or other instructions I may require. I very much doubt he would be inclined to forgive the guest living amongst my stores, even if it was at her own insistence."

The Survivor felt the beginnings of panic. On the one hand, if she left the cellar, she would be forced to confront the ocean. On the other, if she remained in the cellar, the Dockmaster would discover her before she was ready to recount her story.

"I don't want anyone to know I'm here yet," she said quietly.

"Aye, you have my word," he replied. "But to keep it, I must escort you to Stagrock. Except myself, no one ever lands on that shore. After that, I will remove any sign of your stay here, and I will keep your secret for as long as you desire."

"Thank you," she said. "It's just... if I walk outside, then the ocean..."

"I understand."

"You don't."

"In fact, I do," he said plainly. "Not four days ago, the thought of meeting another person, speaking to someone again petrified me to inaction. It took everything I had to come down into this cellar."

"You were afraid?" she asked. "Of me?"

"More of people in general," he replied. He lifted up his hook as he continued. "I lost more than my hand. When the navy discharged me, I returned to a nameless town in Northedge. I kept to myself, worked only at night... when I was offered Stagrock Light, it was a blessing. No one ever sets foot here but the Keeper. Not until you."

"Yet you've returned with supplies and food," she pointed out. "Each day."

"Apparently, those fears abated thereafter," he replied. "It seems being forced to face those demons was enough to purge them. Perhaps the same will be true for you."

The Keeper had told her the truth. He was unafraid of her companionship, though he had no explanation for the transformation. It was as if passing over the threshold of the cellar thrust him into a new - or rather, old - version of himself, back to a time when he reveled in the company of others rather than reviling it.

Yet meeting the Dockmaster dredged up anxiety. Delaying that conversation was a boon in that regard, though it cast a cloud over the Survivor that he couldn't dismiss. There was an unshared reason for her not wanting to face him, and whatever it was must be quite unsavory.

But that was a problem for another day.

She took his arm, and he led the way with measured steps. As they reached the cellar door, the roar of the sea greeted their ears, and her grip became crushing as she faltered.

"Fear not," he said. "If you cannot speak, I will continue on in silence and guide you to the boat. If you cannot walk, I will carry you. If you cannot move, all the better. You need only remain still, and I shall have you at Stagrock before the asphodels turn their heads."

She nodded her head, yes, and he yanked the door open. When he tried to lead her on, she became rooted to the spot, her eyes wide in fear despite the harsh rays of the sun.

The Keeper loathed it, but he had given her his word. So he took hold of her and dragged her outside, ready to lift her off her feet and carry her to the boat. He leaned her up against the wall before releasing her to secure the door. He had yet to restore the lock - in fact, he had written a request for the Dockmaster to handle that - so he had to tie the door shut, which took several protracted minutes. 

So focused had he been on the task at hand that he didn't notice when the Survivor abandoned the wall. 

It had not been a conscious decision to step away. After the Keeper dragged her out of the cellar and into the light, she braced herself for the familiar anxiety the overwhelmed her every time she so much as saw the sea. It occurred to her that she might hide the truth from herself by shutting her eyes, yet she couldn't close them. She couldn't turn away. 

And when she saw the ocean - really saw it for the first time she could remember - she didn't want to turn away. The surge of the tide captivated her, drawing her away like a Siren beckoning her to her end, so she approached the beach aware of the danger yet unafraid of it. She was wary and cautious but not terrified, neither was she recklessly wandering.

The Survivor felt more like herself than she had in a very, very long time.

Not one year ago, she and her deputies were in pursuit of a suspect who escaped custody. So determined was she to capture him that she forewent several key procedures, and they chased him straight through the night to the coast. She hadn't appreciated how close they were to the water or she wouldn't've raced after him on foot. The towering buildings and trees parted, revealing a steep cliff with smaller houses that led right up to the shoreline. Her heart leaped into her throat, where it caught all the air of her next breath, and suddenly, she was feeling the sting of salt water in her lungs and eyes along with the freezing cascade around her as she struggled to cough up the water and finally, finally breath. Normally, she could hardly recall the night _The Yellow Bug_ went down, but when the ocean was near, she relived a collage of those memories, and nothing could draw her out of them.

Yet today, the echo of the waves lapping against the shore and crashing over the rocks soothed her. The horizon that expanded out before her majestically hinted at the magnitude of the world ahead where before the endlessness of it consumed her.

The ocean had been the one demon she could not chase from her mind, the lingering doubt that overcast the joyous and prosperous life she lived. Yet now that everything beautiful in her life had been taken from her, now that she was forsaken and alone, it was a thing of pure and absolute beauty, untainted by the hands of humanity, untouched by the lies of their lips.

When the Keeper discovered that she was no longer nearby, he panicked, worried that he had miscalculated and her terror had driven her into the arms of the sea. He ran to the boat, his eyes scouring the landscape for any hint of her. He nearly collapsed in relief when he caught sight of a figure standing on the shore.

He wanted to reprimand her, but the words were lost to him when she spoke upon his approach.

"It's beautiful," she commented.

She was staring out at the ocean, her face aglow with awe and admiration.

"Aye, it is," he replied. "How do you feel?"

"Free," she said quietly. "How is that possible?"

"They say Stagrock is a place of hope," he replied. "It is the sole Beacon of Northedge, and legend has it that when its light falls upon you, all the woes of this world are cast into shadow."

"Then why didn't your woes disappear when you became the Keeper?" she asked.

"Perhaps they did," he countered. "I simply lacked the opportunity to prove it until your untimely arrival. Shall we?"

He offered her his arm, and she delicately placed her hands on him, suddenly very conscious of their proximity. It was far from unpleasant, yet she feared that he might become enamored of her before she proved her trustworthiness. She would rather win his loyalty and friendship than beguile him.

The Keeper escorted her to a rowboat and helped her inside before untying it, climbing in, and pushing off. She turned her head toward their destination, which was a magnificent tower that erupted from stone. It was the only structure apart from the cellar for miles around, the stark contrast of crafted shelter against the unforgiving landscape highlighted by the sunlight both from above and reflected from below.

* * *

The Keeper secured the boat to the mooring as the Survivor examined the lighthouse. It was taller than she expected, certainly higher than the cliffs of the mainland, which were like specs on the horizon. Though it was hardly a natural structure, it seemed to be hewn from stone, like a giant had taken a hammer and chisel to craft it. That would explain why she saw no lines revealing where bricks or stones were lain.

"Feel free to select whichever room you desire," the Keeper said as he joined her. "Most I've left bare. I planned to convert them to storage eventually."

He opened the door to the basement and led the way, guiding her up the spiral staircase into a glorious tower that continued winding upward straight into the unseen sky.

"You live here?" she inquired as she lagged behind him on the stairs.

"Aye," he replied. "Best leave these bottom floors empty. The kitchen and the living room - which has the only fireplace - are on floors above the midline."

"All the clothes lines are down here," she pointed out.

"I apologize," he said. "Life as a bachelor means there's no one to remind you to take in the laundry."

He stopped at the midline to show her the kitchen and stores as well as the living room. Neither room seemed particularly warm or comfortable, but there were many comforts, not the least of which was the ability to cook inside.

"Pick whichever room you desire," he said. "With any luck, I'll return before dusk."

"Return?" she repeated. 

"In order to keep my promise to you, I must address the cellar before the Dockmaster sends supplies," he reminded her. "I have to ask that you stay inside the lighthouse at all times on the chance that they come a day sooner than I expect."

"Of course," she said. "Thank you."

"A fair warning: the beacon is protected with a powerful force, so it's best not to explore the beacon room without me. Oh, and, since you cannot attend the parapets just yet, if you find yourself in desperate need of a view, I recommend the top floor," he said. "Until we meet again."

He bowed his head slightly. It was a formal gesture that wasn't familiar to her. She mirrored his movement with a smile. Then he turned on his heel and descended the stairs in haste, his head held high and his back rigid.

She watched him until he disappeared through the basement door, noting that he moved far more quickly taking his leave than he did escorting her inside. 

The Survivor ascended the stairs, peeking into every room as she went. All of them were shaped like a crescent moon, hugging the tower like partial rungs. They were all approximately the same size, and some contained covered furniture, though the word 'sparse' could be aptly applied. Unfortunately, most lacked windows, making them more fit as closets than bedrooms.

The stairwell wound more tightly, as if the tower was narrowing. For several floors, there were no doors or landings, for she was nearing the top.

The Keeper had told her about the view. Discarding her room search, she made her way up the stairs to the top landing, which was like the living room and kitchen, an entire circular floor open to the staircase, which curiously continued up for several more floors with two other doors.

Curious, she went to the first door beyond the last landing, which opened into an empty room with an enormous window that spanned the entire width as well as ceiling to floor, or very nearly so. When she approached it, she discovered why.

A large section was not a window but a door that opened out onto the smaller parapet that cradled the beacon. She hesitated, remembering her promise to stay inside, and stepped back. That was when she realized the height of this room was different from the others; it was noticeably shorter, even though she knew the next room was more than a single story up.

As she made for the door, something caught her eye. The ceiling opened up before the doorway to the stairs, revealing the true size of the room. She looked up and saw a lofted area above the window; it had been so wonderful a view that she missed it. After a few minutes of searching, she found a draw string, and when she pulled on it, a ladder appeared, anchoring at her feet.

Curiosity in full peek, she climbed up to inspect the area.

Had anyone been nearby, they would've witnessed her jaw agape for several minutes as she stepped onto the platform. The lofted area was more than tall enough to allow her to stand, and it had a large bed in the center, lined up against the far wall. It must've been specially made for this place, for the headboard and front were curved so that it fit the rounded wall perfectly. It was flanked by a nightstand that was similarly curved. A pair of bureaus lined up on either side of the room, both far enough back not to be visible from the ground floor. 

It was the only room that had been prepared, and for a moment she wondered if she hadn't stumbled into the Keeper's bedchamber. But both the bureaus were empty, and the fresh bed linens concealed a tiny card that was laid out on one of the pillows.

_To the Survivor:_

_I took the liberty of setting up a room. Should you find one of the other rooms more pleasant, moving the furniture will be no trouble. I thought this one suited you best._

_Sincerely,  
The Keeper_

It was written in a tidy cursive that she would never have guessed belonged to the Keeper, though there was no one else around to pen such a note. The most stubborn part of her thought it presumptuous of him, yet she knew it was that same part of her that resisted any kind of support from others, especially from anyone who courted her.

Perhaps that was because every time she accepted such a present, suitors - especially male suitors - saw it as a victory, one step closer to winning her heart. She understood the general meaning when people spoke of these things, and she knew that the interpretation was never meant to be literal. That meant very little when the people in her life acted as if she were a prize to be won or a trophy to beget the envy of others. The Barkeep had reminded her just how deep that sentiment ran, for when he discovered that she had no intention of settling down and marrying him - certainly not any time soon - he reacted as if she had stolen something that was rightfully his, something that he had earned.

A flood of memories overwhelmed her, dredging up the past few weeks of misery that led her to this place. She bit back her tears, refusing to break down. She had made it this far, and she had survived. There was nothing to shed tears about.

The Keeper wasn't the Barkeep, and he had given her no reason to think he was courting her nor expecting her hand in marriage. Though she hardly knew him, she suspected that he established this humble room so that she might have a place to sleep that was neither a large closet nor plagued by a direct view of the sea. He knew that, to keep his promise to her, he had to coax her to leave the safety of the cellar, and had she panicked and frozen at the sight of the sea, this chamber would've been the only place she could sleep.

Requiring a distraction, she went down the drawn ladder, leaving it aloft for her later ascent, and returned to the spiral staircase. With determination borne from escaping sorrow, she climbed the stairs to the final door, shoving it open more harshly than necessary. She had the presence of mind to grab the handle before it crashed into the far wall.

The room before her was smaller than the other full-floor rooms, yet it seemed larger, for it wasn't split in two by the spiral staircase. She stepped inside and discovered that the threshold of the door was under a spandrel for another staircase that lead up through the second story, almost certainly to the roof.

Before she continued upward, however, she took in the sight before her. Like most of the lighthouse, the bedroom was sparse, even austere, though the bed was double the size of a single bed. It was quite possible that that was the only grandiose thing the Keeper owned. There was a large bureau that filled the rest of the space under the stairs with drawers, save for a large, open space where clothing hung like that in a closet. The windows were adorned with dark curtains and, though she could only just see them from here, shutters on the outside. Beyond that, there was nothing more than a nightstand.

The Keeper lived simply, which she might've guessed earlier, had she taken the time to reflect on it. She wondered what his duties were and how he spent his time. By his own account, he never received guests or visitors, which meant he spent no time entertaining others. Did he while away his days with music? Or did the care and keeping of the Sole Beacon of Northedge consume every hour from dawn until dusk?

A hatch in the floor caught her eye and distracted her from her thoughts. Wondering where it led, she investigated, lifting it open and climbing down.

This room was unlike any other she had explored that day, for it had an unusual shape. The window wrapped around most of the room and angled down slightly as it disappeared around the corner. She followed the wall, interested to see what lay beyond the column that obstructed her view.

What struck her first was the immense amount of heat; it shouldn't have surprised her, given that it kept the room above several degrees hotter than the floors below. It also explained how the lighthouse survived the chilling ocean wind with a single fireplace. She drank in the warmth, allowing it to wring the ice out of her bones. The Keeper's warning rang in her mind, but it would be a shame to come so far and fail to peek at the beacon.

She peered around the edge of the column and stole a glance. She barely registered the unique slope of the room before the flame's light overwhelmed her vision and forced her to pull away.

The windows and room were shaped much like snail shell, spiraling around and subtly down, opening the beacon in every direction while providing a kind of hunting blind for the Keeper. She chanced another look because something was off; there were tiny rainbow marks along the wall, like those a mirror might make.

There was a tin ripple - a scalloped edge - near the corner of the column. She touched it, and though there appeared to be nothing there, her fingers passed over something solid and rather similar in texture to chainmail. She raked her hand over it, sure it would make a sound when it moved, but there was nothing but silence. She pawed at the material to feel it shift, only to find her hand wound up in it. She pulled on her hand, hard, to free it, but whatever it was tightened against her.

It conjured the mental image of thieves trying to pull their fists past the neck of a jar and failing until they opened their fists.

The Survivor's first instinct was to fight her way free, but the experience conjured up old mental images of people in quicksand: the more they struggled, the deeper they sank. So she relaxed and stopped moving. Then she grabbed the wrist of her entrapped hand and slowly eased it out of the snare.

He hadn't been kidding about a powerful force protecting the beacon, though he failed to mention that it was also invisible. She made a mental note to ask him about it at the next opportunity.

She went back up the ladder to the Keeper's room and closed the hatch before continuing up the stairs, which led to a short, shelf-like plateau. From her perch, she looked down over the Keeper's bedroom, which was farther away than she expected, more than a full story down. She turned back to the wall, where rungs of a ladder continued upward, leading to a hatch in the ceiling.

Certain that she had finally reached the roof, she clambered up the wall and shoved the hatch open, pulling herself up into a smaller, circular room, which had yet more stairs, though these led into the center of the room rather than up the side. As she reached the top, she realized that, while she could continue up a central ladder that led to the actual roof, there was no need, for this floor had nothing but windows all the way around, with a short moat of solid wall below.

And from where she stood right now, in the center of the topmost floor of Stagrock Light, she could see everything for miles. Smoke rose in the north, and she followed its trail to what she assumed was Cellar Island, and past that, she could make out parts of the mainland and the harbor. She could even see a few ships.

To the west, south, and east, there was nothing but long stretches of ocean, save for the rocky bluffs in the west. To the south, there were silhouettes on the horizon, and she knew they must be ships, for the Great Untamed Ocean had nothing but water from here to the Midlands. She stretched out on her stomach, focusing on the southern edge of the horizon, as if peering in one direction long enough might grant her more potent eyesight. 

The Survivor imagined herself aboard one of those distant ships. She dreamed about them taking her home, where she had a name, a position, and the respect of those around her. She pretended that she still had a place like that to return to, and for a little while, it soothed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aether was the Greek primordial deity of light and the upper, heavenly air breathed by the gods.


	7. Mnemosyne's Cursed Clockwork

The Keeper spent the afternoon restoring the cellar. He extinguished the fire first, so the smoke could vent for the duration of his efforts before he closed the chute. His last chore was sweeping out the ash, which he piled into an empty half-barrel, storing it until he found some manner of us for it.

By the time he rowed back to Stagrock and secured the rowboat in the basement, there were precious few hours before dusk. He wondered if he hadn't done it on purpose as a way of avoiding an unpleasant train of thought. He had spent the day ignoring his instincts that could only lead to a disagreeable conversation with his guest.

The Survivor hadn't technically lied. He assumed that her vehemence about her locale resulted from her desire to return home somewhere in the Northmost Lands. Yet when he tipped his head to her before he took his leave, she responded in kind, mirroring his motion precisely. Anyone who lived in Northedge for longer than the span of a few weeks would know that the appropriate response would be to raise the chin.

In Northmost tradition, the bowing of the head was a simple request along the lines of ' _By your leave._ ' The act of lifting the chin in response meant something akin to ' _My leave and blessing to you_.'

So common was this exchange that even the Keeper, who had avoided speaking to anyone whenever possible knew of it. It was something of a daily exchange, perhaps as common, if not more so, than greeting one another by raising a single hand, so even a Recluse like himself could not mistake it.

Her ignorance on such a common custom could've been explained away as a moment of absentmindedness, which was how he discharged the nagging doubts as he worked. But now that his hands were still, his mind asserted itself in full force, and he could no longer ignore his concerns.

The request not to involve the Dockmaster was far from unfounded, as such a position was often bent by corruption and greed. But it wasn't only the Dockmaster she was interested in circumventing; she hadn't wanted anyone to know where she was or that she survived the storm.

And then, when he mentioned loved ones, her wounds had surfaced. The loss was recent, that much was clear, but her certainty was what caught his attention. Perhaps some tragedy had taken every loved person from her life, but what of distant relations? Friends of the deceased? Surely there must be one person in all the world that would mourn the Survivor had she died in that shipwreck.

As far as he knew, such absolute rejection was reserved for outcasts and criminals. 

Northedge was a hard place, known for its chaotic storms and austere living. Long ago, back when the world was new, laws established the Northmost Lands as a refuge for any seeking asylum. It was meant to protect the persecuted, but over the centuries and millennia, it expanded to include those who abandoned their homes and traveled north to escape justice. Fugitives from the Midlands and beyond need only set the soles of their feet upon the dry land of Northedge, and they could never be forced from it, not even to answer for their crimes.

Of course, the price of freedom was living in a land of giants, asceticism, and abrupt tempests, and any future crimes would be subject to the laws of Northedge, which awarded executions for nearly every ill action recognized by the law.

The Keeper had to consider the very real possibility that the first person he had spoken to in years was a runaway from the Midlands. That was the only reasonable explanation for the Survivor's behavior. She could be a fugitive from the law or someone fleeing unjust retribution. In either case, she had elected to conceal the truth from him, and he doubted that would change by way of polite request.

So he steeled himself as he ascended the spiral staircase. He would use dinner as a pretense and demand answers, lest he send her away.

As he climbed the stairs, his legs became heavy with tiredness and his shoulders hunched forward. He had pushed himself hard for the past few days, and he wanted nothing more than to sit by the fire and rest.

When he reached the midline, he found a dish of steaming rice topped with vegetables and a dish of beef stew. He never bothered with such elaborate meals, settling for a scoop of plain rice and raw vegetables with the occasional addition of dried meat. The scent had wafted down the stairs, and it was the sweet smell of comfort food that coaxed the tension from his body as he ascended.

He turned to speak to her, but she wasn't in the kitchen nor the living room, which had undergone such a bizarre transformation that he barely recognized it. He only ever kept a single blanket for the chairs by the fire, and he never bothered with pillows or anything else that made it difficult to keep tidy. But during the hours he spent on Cellar Island, the Survivor had transferred half the contents of the linen closet. Both chairs had blankets and pillows, and a small army of both covered the sofa.

He wasn't sure how to react to this particular development. On the one hand, he hardly expected her to hide in her room. On the other, he equally hadn't thought she'd feel free to take so many liberties. Not only had she moved many of his best linens to the only room with a large, active fireplace, she hadn't bothered to select matching or complementary colors. Like everything on Stagrock, the furniture and covers were secondhand and subject to considerable fading, making them a mixture of muddied and grayed fabrics. It was hard to look at under the harsh illumination of the fire. 

"You're back," the Survivor said as she descended the stairs.

"Aye," he replied stiffly. 

"Sorry about the mess," she said, sensing his tension. "I might've gotten a bit carried away. I was just looking for a blanket to sit with."

"It's quite all right, though I might suggest returning the spare dozen," he replied as pleasantly as possible. "If you're concerned that you may find need of them at a moment's notice, we can store them nearer the midline."

She smiled and ducked into the kitchen, her mane of blonde hair flowing behind her. Her beauty struck him in that moment, and he wondered how he could ignore it long enough to form a sentence. He hesitated before following her, but he had resolved himself to speak with her plainly. Beautiful or not, now was the time.

She was setting out plates and serving utensils. He normally ate in the living room, but there was no proper place to do it, no table to sit at while eating. That left them with the kitchen counter. 

"I made supper," she said. "Though I'm not much of a cook."

"More so than I," he confessed. "Thank you. You needn't have gone to such lengths. The only thing I require from you is your honesty. The truth."

She straightened up for a moment, picking up on his tone. She replied, "That's why I made dinner."

Then she nodded, quickly served herself, and carried her plate and utensils into the living room. He followed suit, taking generous portions. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps she was planning on telling him everything.

* * *

_Six weeks ago in the Midlands_ , the Sheriff tossed and turned in bed for a while before she fell into an uneasy sleep, where she dreamed of shadows sneaking up on her, chasing her through the dark, forcing her to run through unknown forest, where she moved between the trees until she crashed headlong into someone. He found his feet before her, and he offered her a hand up. Though she could see very little in the dim light, she saw enough of the man to know that he was lean and handsome. He had dark hair with a beard to match, but she couldn't make out his eyes or any other feature of his face. She wanted to have a better look, so as soon as she returned to her feet, she came close to him, caressing his cheek, ready for a kiss.

She was ripped from her pleasant dream by a number of loud sounds. It took her a few sleepy moments to realize that someone was wailing on her door. 

She had hoped the Barkeep would take the time to calm down, but the pounding on the door suggested that he still wasn't thinking clearly.

She rose from bed, wondering if arresting the Barkeep would be considered an abuse of power, even if he was legitimately disturbing the peace at no-o'clock in the morning. 

She went to the door, but she didn't want to face him half-asleep. 

"What the hell, Walsh?" she yelled sleepily through the door.

"Emma, it's me!" the Bailiff replied. "Let me in."

"Graham?" she muttered.

Had all the men in her life gone insane?

"Please, Emma, open the door. Trust me, I wouldn't be here at this hour if it wasn't important."

She obliged, waving him into her apartment before she shut and locked the door behind him.

"Pack a bag," he said.

"What?"

"Pack a bag," he repeated. "Essentials and anything you can't be parted with."

"If this is your idea of a romantic trip, you're wrong," she said playfully. "Who storms into someone's apartment before dawn and says 'Pack a bag'?"

"This isn't a joke."

"How much do you want me to pack?" she asked in jest. "How long is this trip you've planned?"

"Forever," he replied. "We won't be coming back."

The Bailiff, annoyed by her joking attitude, marched into her room and dragged her knapsack and large travel bag from under her bed. He frantically collected clothing and tossed it inside.

"What has gotten into you?" she demanded.

"A friend of mine is on the nightshift," he answered, as if that explained anything at all. "Sent word to me that some investigator was petitioning to have you suspended from your post and arrested. Both were granted. Officers will be here by dawn, maybe a few hours later if you're lucky. You can't be here when they come."

"Graham, stop, stop!" she said, grabbing hold of his arm.

He stopped packing and turned to her.

"Let them," she said. "I haven't done anything wrong. Whatever the charges are, I'm innocent."

"This isn't some traffic violation they're gonna drag you through the mud for," he replied. "Some private detective says you're responsible for the Locksmith's death when _The Yellow Bug_ went down. They've got witnesses saying that they saw the ship turn away from the harbor as the storm blew in. And those same witnesses all confirmed that you were the one piloting the ship."

It felt like all the air had vanished from the room. The Sheriff sat down, hard, on the bed, her body shaking with fury and disgust. The Barkeep hadn't gone home and cooled off; instead, he had taken his 'evidence' to court to ruin her life. 

"I can't believe he did this," she whispered.

"Who?" the Bailiff asked. "Who did what?"

"Walsh," she replied. "We had this big fight about the fact that I was dating you both. A few months ago, he brought up marriage, and I shot him down. Told him I wasn't ready. He went ballistic. Ever since then he's been trying to monopolize my time, and whenever I tell him I can't go out with him or I'm too tired, he acts like I must be with you. For the last week or so, though, he'd been better. I thought it had blown over, but then last night, he started asking me about _The Yellow Bug_. Why did we decide to travel for our vacation? Who was piloting the ship? Why didn't we make it to the harbor?"

"He hired the private detective," the Bailiff concluded. "And now he's taken it to the courts."

"How could anyone think I had anything to do with it?" she asked. "I nearly died. Those were the most terrifying days of my life, and Neal... I can't control the weather! It wasn't my fault!"

"I know it wasn't," the Bailiff replied, sitting next to her and wrapping an arm around her. "I know you. You'd never let harm come to someone else. Not if you could stop it. If you could've saved the Locksmith, he would've lived, but if they arrest you for murder - "

She interrupted, "They want to arrest me for murder? Why? How?"

"They want an official inquiry," he replied. "They probably only have enough to bring you in for negligent homicide, but the charge will be enough to re-open the case."

"These witnesses," she said. "Who are they?"

"I can't tell you that."

She insisted, "Whoever they are, they're lying about that night. I wasn't piloting the ship."

"I can't tell you because I don't know," he replied. "I wasn't on duty at the time. All I know was one witness was a wealthy ship owner who made it to the harbor in time to escape the storm. The other is a respected sailor. These are the kinds of witnesses that people believe without question. So pack a bag."

"No," she said resolutely. "I need to fight back. If I run, everyone will assume I'm guilty."

"Everyone will assume you're guilty if you fight," he retorted. "The truth won't matter."

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked, getting to her feet. "The word of two good witnesses against the Sheriff? That's not enough."

"If we debate this, by the time we're done, the police will be here, and you won't have any choices left."

The Sheriff considered her options. She knew the Bailiff; he wasn't the kind of man who drew irrational conclusions. If he was worried about something, there was reason for concern. While she had no desire to abandon everyone and everything she knew, he had taken an enormous risk.

"I'll pack, but only if you tell me everything," she said. "I'll decide what to do when I know all the facts. If I stay, you leave without a fight. There's no need for both of us to be arrested."

The Bailiff loathed the idea, but he knew that there was no other way to convince the Sheriff. So he agreed to explain everything, though time would be better served riding under the cover of night.

The Sheriff gathered a number of personal effects that she would never abandon: her personal journal, her parents' necklace, and the letters she and the Locksmith wrote to one another during their brief romance. She returned to her room and started to pack necessities.

"The private investigator has an entire case," the Bailiff explained. "Witnesses, reports about the debris, everything. You were the primary owner of _The Yellow Bug_ , which means if they can prove that you neglected its upkeep - "

"The worst storm in living memory strikes suddenly, yet somehow I'm responsible?" she asked. "How does that make sense?"

"I doesn't," he replied. "But they aren't only arguing that you neglected the ship. They're going to say you purposely went out to sea - and stayed out - in order to kill the Locksmith."

The Sheriff turned around, her face screwed up in anger. "Who the hell are these people?"

"You heard about that Police Captain the county over?"

"Captain David Nolan in Yorktown?" she asked. "I met him once."

"Before he lost his job, I assume."

"What?" she asked. "I mean, I remembered there were some trumped up charges on some cold case that happened before he joined the police. It was thrown out in court."

"Eventually," he replied. "The charges included negligent homicide, so they denied him bail. After four years, the case was dismissed, but he was stripped of his position and title for violating the morality clause."

"For something he was accused of doing before he trained to be an officer?"

"No, of course not," he replied, agitated that he had yet to convince her. "They denied him bail. He had served in the police force for his entire adult life. He put away nearly every man in prison with him."

"In protective custody," she protested. 

"He still came into contact with other prisoners," he explained. "During those four years, there were several attempts on his life. The last time, three inmates attacked him and the guards were too busy doing something else at the time. He defended himself, broke a few bones, but since the guards didn't see it, they couldn't confirm that he wasn't the one who started it, which is what the three inmates insisted had happened. Assault and battery. No one pressed charges, but it didn't matter. Neither did the not guilty verdict. Morality clause was iron clad."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"The Private Investigator that kept Captain Nolan in jail for four years awaiting a fair trial - "

"His twin brother," she interrupted. "I remember everyone being up in arms about it all. Identical twins on opposite sides of the law."

"He's the one who put together the case against you," he said. "He's done this to countless people all over the Midlands. He's the man you hire when you know the person hasn't committed a crime, but you want to use the legal system to destroy their life anyway. It doesn't matter that you're innocent. He'll find a way to delay the trial dates to keep you in jail without bail until he finds some way to strip you of your position and whatever else he can get away with. He did this to his own twin brother for a paycheck."

The Sheriff had heard of the Prince of Private Investigators, but only as some boogeyman from the big cities out west. She had no idea he had been responsible for the situation in Yorktown. It seemed impossible that anyone could manage such heinous acts against the justice system and be allowed to continue those abuses with impunity due to some legal technicality. 

"We need to fight back," she said. "You said it yourself, he's known for this. Someone has to stop him. He does this to good people who've done nothing wrong."

"Except eventually they all do," the Bailiff protested. "Whether it's a technicality or a serious crime. That man puts you in dangerous situations until you're forced to do what he wants - ruin your career, end your marriage, break a promise, whatever it is he wants."

"We can prove that that is what he does," she replied. "All we need is a solid case - "

He interrupted, "You're not listening. He won't be the one on trial. His activities will be meaningless. If you try to argue that in court, people will defend him by claiming he's good at his job. He outsmarts criminals that get away with things because they're too careful to be caught. That kind of nonsense. If he was coming after me or anybody else, then I'd say, let's fight him, but he's coming after you. And he's focused on things that happened on days you claimed you can't recall."

"Claimed?" she repeated. "What? You don't believe me now?"

"Of course I believe you," he replied. "But you went on the record and said you couldn't remember most of what happened during the storm and aftermath. He has witnesses that remember it all clear as day. You can't refute them."

"I never said I couldn't remember _anything_ ," she protested. "I remember the entire day before the storm hit. I know I wasn't piloting. I know I said that. The things I couldn't recall all happened after the storm came down hard on us. The doctors explained it."

"And that works against you as well," he said. "If your injuries contributed to your memory loss during the storm, whose to say you didn't forget other things, too? Maybe you had been piloting the ship."

"I wasn't!"

"I understand that," he said, trying to calm her down. "I am on your side. Always. But you know how these things work. If you stay here, you'll be playing his game, and eventually, you'll lose everything."

"If I leave, I lose everything!" she replied loudly. "So why not stay and fight for what's mine? The least I could do is take the bastard down with me."

"You won't lose everything if you run because I'm coming with you."

"What?"

"You can't escape to the Northmost Lands without help," he replied. "You need someone to look out for you."

"If you come with me, you'll never be able to come back," she said. "You'll lose everything."

"Not everything," he replied.

"Graham, I - no, I won't let you."

"It's not your decision."

Panic and rage converged inside her, orchestrated by the bitter betrayal of the Barkeep. She had cared for him, and he certainly believed he was in love with her. How could he do this to her? To her family?

"At least let me get you out of the county," he pleaded. "Once we get past the towns and cities, we can hide in the country. We can decide what to do next once we're there."

"You think you can just go home after helping me escape?"

"I'll just claim that you came calling after you and the Barkeep had a bad row," he replied. "You begged me to take you away from it all. Only a fool would turn you down."

The thought of escaping her life and responsibilities for an indefinite period of time was appealing, especially if the Bailiff truly meant to come with her. His idea of an impromptu romantic trip could do more than protect his title and position. Unlike the Northmost Lands, they could still receive news within a reasonable timeframe. Private Investigator Nolan might be good at his job, but nobody had a perfect win record. Maybe the case wouldn't stand up.

It was the best of both worlds: she neither had to abandon the fight nor risk incarceration in a prison brimming with inmates she put away.

"Fine," she said. "But I'll only do it if you agree to leave a note for the court."

"You want me to report that I'm leaving?" he asked incredulously.

"If you don't, people will wonder why you ran off without informing the courts that you wouldn't be able to fulfill your shifts," she reasoned. "I'll send word to my deputies and leave a note for my parents."

"We don't have a moment to waste," he pleaded.

"Then write quickly."

The Bailiff did as she requested, scribbling down a formal letter to the courts explaining his abrupt absence from his sworn duties. Though it took precious few minutes to write, it felt as if they were sealing their fate in ink with every character. When he failed to hide his discomfort and impatience, the Sheriff pointed out that, by the time the warrant was fully processed, the early morning shift change would begin, which provided more than enough time for them to exit gracefully. He bit his lip to prevent himself from saying something harsh and short-sighted. Of all the woman in the Midlands, why did he have to fall for the most stubborn and independent?

Finally, the Sheriff left a note on the table for her parents and insisted on arrangements to ensure the timely arrival of their missives. He readied for yet another protest, but she stemmed the tide before he began by promising to travel immediately to the barn he had selected as a rendezvous point. If she concluded her work with haste and was swift of foot - both of which she readily vowed - then she would arrive long before dawn, and they would leave under the cover of nightfall.

"Don't forget to pack your own bag," the Sheriff reminded him. "I don't want to be out in the countryside with a man who has only two pairs of underwear to his name."

He laughed as genuine relief filled him, for he felt that they might yet survive this coming darkness.

"I'll ask Red to carry my letter," he said. "She has the early morning shift, and she won't hound me with questions."

"And I'll pin this to August's door," she added, holding up an evelope.

"August?" he repeated in disbelief. "That dozy neighbor of yours who fashions himself a writer?"

"He does write summaries that are published," she countered. 

"On milk bottles," he snapped. "He doesn't even have his words printed properly in the paper yet."

"Then it's a good thing that I'm not asking him to write anything," she said sharply. "He's the only neighbor nearby that'll be up by dawn, before anyone comes looking for me. Besides, he has a crush on me - "

"Aye, so does Red, and Belle, and half the town," he interrupted.

She continued as if he hadn't said anything, "And he will make sure the deputies receive my letter and instructions, no matter what."

"Aye, he will. I'll meet you at the barn in one hour."

"I'll be there in half an hour, waiting on you," she replied with a smile.

The Bailiff hadn't realized she had gotten so close during their conversation, but she was standing right next to him, blocking the direct path to the door. Her hand traveled up his arm to his cheek, and the faint pressure of her touch seared his blood, causing him to flush. The tiniest gasp absconded from his lips when she cupped his chin, and then her body closed in on his as she went on her tiptoes. His arms - acting on their own accord - enclosed her in a crushing hug as she kissed him. It was long and passionate, and had she not given her word to meet him only an hour later he would've thought that it was a goodbye kiss. He leaned his forehead into hers, wondering if he needed to worry that she was only sending him away to protect him.

"Emma," he began, not quite sure what to say next.

Her hands stroked down his shoulders and back before playfully palming his bottom as she squeezed him into another hug. He released an audible sigh, for she'd never say 'goodbye' with such a lewd gesture. She stepped away, revealing the door not far behind her.

"One hour," she said, as if she could read his mind. "Don't be late."

"Until then."

He mused over everything as he traveled home to pack a bag. She was incredible. He burst into her home in the dead of night with - if not the worst news imaginable, then something quite nearly so - and yet, she still discovered a means to make him laugh, to make him hope. He found himself looking forward to their adventure, despite the fact that the impromptu romantic getaway was a cover story rather than a vacation. The anticipation of being a mere hour away from a trip that enabled them to be together and simultaneously apart from the noise and hectic bustle of their day to day lives was exhilarating, even with the pall of treachery hanging over them.

The Bailiff would keep her free by whatever means necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mnemosyne was a Greek Titan and the personification of memory.


	8. The Wrath of Melinoe

The Keeper shifted uncomfortably in his seat. One downside of his long-standing aversion to company was that he had no recent measure of the world, and thus no sense of the ways of other lands. He didn't recall the Midlands having such an oppressive system of justice, for innocence was presumed until a judgment was rendered. Then again, his experience with legal matters was limited entirely to maritime law, where the vessel's Captain acted as judge, jury, and executioner. In terms of the rulings of courts, his personal experience had taught him to mistrust trials and other laborious judicial matters, as they always seemed to produce the outcome desired by those in power without regard to truth or fairness.

"We spent weeks trying to build a defense," the Survivor explained. "But I can't remember what happened during the storm, and I've had so many nightmares about it that I can't... I can't tell if what I remember is the truth or just something from a dream."

"So you fled?" he asked skeptically. "First impressions can deceive, and we hardly know one another, but you don't seem the type to run when from a fight."

The Survivor nodded solemnly, and it made the Keeper worry that he had asked the wrong question. The emotions that passed over her face - anguish, regret, loss - made him regret his desire for answers.

"The Bailiff and I had been on our 'romantic getaway' for three weeks when we - I - decided we should go home," she began. "Even if I lost my position and title, my parents, my brothers, everyone I had ever known was in New Brook. I couldn't abandon them."

"I take it things did not go to plan."

She shook her head, no. "Everything was fine until we reached my parent's vacation cottage. It's this little house on the edge of town. If you keep riding west or south from there, there's nothing but countryside for miles and miles. We were going to spend the rest of the night, and the next day, the Bailiff would take me in. He insisted on it. No one would harm a suspect in custody of a court official."

"He did a great deal to protect you," the Keeper observed.

"He did," she replied tersely. "It would've worked, except the Barkeep had been waiting for us at the cottage."

"Your other love."

"He was never my love," she countered. "We had a few dates. It was nothing serious."

"My apologies, I am unfamiliar with more modern means of courtship," the Keeper confessed. "Please, continue. What happened when you encountered the Barkeep?"

"He tried to convince me that he never intended for any of this to happen," the Survivor replied. "He had hired the Private Investigator born Jacqueline Giantsbane to investigate the shipwreck of _The Yellow Bug_ , but he never meant for anyone else to know. Didn't realize that she shared everything with her partner, the Prince of Private Investigators, born James Nolan. Apparently they decided that it was their civic duty to report everything to the courts to ensure I was removed from office."

"You believe he was lying?"

"I don't think, I know. I can tell when someone lies to me," she reminded him. "Besides, these Private Investigators are hired guns. They wouldn't waste time and energy on me unless someone was paying them. I told him as much, and that's when he lost it. He had always been jealous of Graham - the Bailiff - so when I told him he'd crossed a line and we'd never be a couple, he decided that it couldn't be about anything other than my relationship with the Bailiff. I tried to calm him down, but..."

She paused for a moment, catching her breath.

"He attacked me," she continued. "The Bailiff heard the commotion - he had been waiting outside so I could deal with the Barkeep - and he came inside to pull him off me. The Barkeep stormed out and slammed the door behind him. It seemed very... final. It took a few minutes to calm me down, but then we started talking about going to town right away. It was better for me to turn myself in than for the police to pick me up during a raid on the cottage. Before we could decide anything, the Barkeep came back with his Flintlock riffle, aimed right at Graham, and... the first shot missed, but that was just luck. I had to stop him. I tackled him and tried to get the gun from him, but he threw me across the room. The whole time he was screaming and shouting about how this was for us - that he'd kill the Bailiff and we'd be together. I grabbed the only thing near me - a long-handled shovel - and hit him across the back of the head before he could take the second shot. He went down and didn't get back up again."

"You killed him?" the Keeper asked quietly.

"Yes," she replied. "In all my years in law enforcement, I never had to kill anyone, not once. I didn't have to kill the Barkeep to stop him. I could've broken his arm or leg, but... it was easier to lash out, and... part of me wanted him dead. I wanted him to pay for what he'd done to me. Turns out the Prince of Private Investigators needn't have wasted so much time. I ruined my life without a single day in prison."

"Surely no one would've held you responsible for defending the life of an innocent," the Keeper suggested. "Especially not a court official."

"He said the same thing," the Survivor said. "But then I saw that the Barkeep didn't leave just to get a weapon. He had brought something else with him. A folder. After the Bailiff and I went off on our 'vacation,' the Private Investigators started looking into it. They got the other Bailiff - Graham's friend - to admit to warning him about the warrant before we ran off. We had been stripped of our titles and positions for over a week. They knew we had contacts inside the system, so they kept everything quiet, knowing that, so long as I didn't find out, I'd return to New Brook and fight rather than run."

The Keeper disliked the conflicted feelings that churned within. He had no doubt that she was telling him the truth, or at least that which she thought was the truth, but no matter how much he empathized with her plight, it did not excuse her actions. Did he truly wish to aid a confessed murderer escape justice?

Perhaps not, but the woman before him was more than her worst act. Her remorse showed him that she had no desire to repeat the same mistake, and her honest and humility convinced him of one thing: she deserved another chance.

"The only way to find refuge in the Northmost Lands is to declare yourself a citizen of Northedge," the Keeper explained. "The Dockmaster is not the most honest of men, but if you announce with me as a witness, he will have no recourse but to accept your dedication. The sooner you do this, the sooner the protection of Northedge is granted to you."

"I understand," she said in barely a whisper. "I know that I need to say the words, but every time I think of them, I keep seeing my parents and friends at our last family picnic. My two deputies bickering over paperwork. All the faces of the children that have come on school trips to the station, looking at me like I'm someone they want to grow up to be. Sometimes I even see the Barkeep, how he was when we first met, before everything went wrong. And I can't... I can't say the words. Not yet. I will. I just need time."

The Keeper nodded his head, yes. Then he replied, "Very well, I will conceal you from the Dockmaster as I promised, but please consider what I've said."

The sun was going down, and it was time for him to retire for the night.

He stood up and gathered his dishes, fully intending to rinse them off and climb the stairs to his bedroom, but he was no stranger to the kind of pain newly inflected upon her. It wasn't exactly kinship, but he felt compelled to confess some part of his own truth on the simplistic belief that it might help her in some small measure.

"The past haunts all of us," the Keeper said. "In my experience, some more than others. I know what it is to regret your own history and to have it linger long after it is passed beyond true reckoning."

"How do you live with it?" she asked, her voice thick with unshed tears.

He gave her a sad smile and replied, "I don't have a choice, and when I find myself overwhelmed, I go out on the roof and look up at the stars."

"Does it help?" she asked.

"Indeed," he replied. "For a time. I pretend that all the whispered scorn is from those lights in the night sky, and after a few minutes in their company, I can return to my bed and sleep, for the stars cannot see me there."

"That doesn't make much sense," she said. "But nothing in my life does. Not anymore."

He picked up his plate, but before he could grab his cup, she spoke.

"Let me," she said. "It's the least I can do in return for saving my life."

He relinquished his grip on the plate and nodded his head. Normally, he would see it as poor form to have the one who cooked also clean the dishes, but he knew what it was like to have debts with no true means of repayment. Even the tiniest gesture of thanks could alleviate that burden, and he had no doubt that the Survivor would benefit from such relief. Furthermore, dusk had fallen, and he was eager to be alone before night came in earnest.

"Sleep well," he said formally. He bowed his head and added, "Survivor."

"Thank you, Keeper," she replied. "For help and your understanding. Rest well."

The sun disappeared below the horizon as the Keeper finished changing into his sleeping attire. He never thought about it until the Survivor's arrival, but his garments were neither a nightgown nor a robe. They were simple, light, loose-fitting slacks with a matching shirt for which he had no proper term. He had taken to wearing them when he took the title of the Keeper, when it became his wont to venture onto the roof on those nights that were too difficult to bare.

She had only been in his life for a few days, yet their meeting marked a shift in his life, the likes of which he could neither name nor deny. He was unafraid of her company, which was a strange thing to him, but he was likewise unconcerned about the Dockmaster and his associates. He considered future confrontations and conversations without so much as an increase in heart rate, though he knew they would be deeply unpleasant.

It went beyond the transcendence of his social ineptitude and fears, though he could not articulate any more than that. It felt as if he had been standing still till the moment he met her, and ever since, the current of time corrected itself, sweeping him up in its forward momentum. He had no means to divine the future, so there was no way for him to know if this mysterious change was for better or ill. Yet it seemed to him that he now had a future - be it poor or plentiful - when before he had nothing but the merciless past and the ever-persistent present. 

But this sudden boon failed to change the fact that he was marked - no, cursed - under the dominion of the moon. And on a night like this one, when the moon was full, his suffering was at its worst.

He felt more than heard the whispers as they began in harsh hisses all around him. One way or another, he would need a reprieve, so he ascended to the roof, there to wait out the worst of the dark hours.

* * *

The Survivor stored the remaining uneaten portions of the meal in the cold bin before attending the dishware. She took her time meticulously scrubbing every inch, attempting to distract herself from the memories that ate away at her. She couldn't help but think of all the things she could've done better, all the ways she could've prevented her current situation.

Confessing to the Keeper had opened the gates she had barred during her escape and recovery. He had used the word 'haunt' to describe the past, and she detested the accuracy of his phrase.

Every night, the last thing she saw before falling asleep was the Barkeep's face.

She released a mirthless laugh to cover the sob pent up inside. She thought of him as the Barkeep because all but the most intimate of relations called for such formality. It wasn't just a matter of politeness. It was taboo to use someone's born name without a true connection, save for those rare times when clarification between two in the same roles was required, such as the pair of Private Investigators.

Even here, on the northern edge of the world, people abided by this rule. The Keeper couldn't call her the Sheriff, for he had not known her by that title. So he used the only formality on hand: the Survivor. She appreciated the gesture, for most in his situation would call her Stranger until such a time that she acquired a rightful position and therefore possessed a name worth speaking.

But the Barkeep - _Walsh Ozman_ , that was his born name - did have an important connection to her. It wasn't the kind he wanted - that of a spouse - but it was a deep, abiding, and far more intimate bond than she had ever envisioned them sharing. The bond between the killer and her victim felt more real and powerful than even that between herself and her parents. In fact, but one relationship outshined it: her and Graham, the Bailiff. She feared that time would consume that connection, forcing it to gray and fray while the specter of Walsh's face never faded.

Perhaps she deserved to be haunted, deserved to have her dreams constantly replay the moment she decided to swing for his head instead of his legs or back.

When the dishes were done, there was nothing to distract her. The memory she had held at bay finally broke the surface, as vivid as the moment she lived it the first time.

_After the Barkeep - Walsh - fell to the floor, the Bailiff knocked the rifle away, and she restrained him with her handcuffs. When she turned him over and saw that his eyes were still open, she knew something was wrong. The Bailiff told her that he was dead. Even though there was no sign of life, she didn't believe it, not until the body started to turn cold._

_He was so very cold._

She snapped back to the here-and-now, and she closed her eyes, trying to remember what the Keeper had said. She never had need for such a remedy, so she didn't know if it would provide any relief, but as she had no other recourse, she decided his suggestion was worthy enough to attempt. Perhaps she would feel better our in the starlight.

So she ascended the stairs to her room, passing by the ladder that led to her comfortable, lofted bed and went through the glass door to the parapet. She glanced up but couldn't make out the night sky with the light of the beacon above her shining true. It was the first time she had gone outside since night fell, and she hadn't realized that her room was below the very light that guided ships to the Northmost Lands.

There was no way to discern the stars from here, nor would the parapets below serve her any better. The only clear view of the night sky would be on the roof. Ascending inside meant traveling through the Keeper's chambers, and she doubted that would be well-received. Luckily, there was also a ladder that led up the east side of the tower. The rungs were wide apart and tight to the wall, but she climbed without difficulty. The crisp night air came off the ocean with an exhilaration of salt, and it rejuvenated her as it buffeted her hair in every direction.

The sensation so distracted her that she failed to notice the voices filling the silence with whispering hisses until she was only a few rungs from the top. She hesitated there, out of sight, listening to what at seemed to be rustling leaves that slowly transformed into words.

_'You think you are brave? You are not brave. You have always been a coward.'_

_'You think living here makes you free, independent, but you're just as much of a slave now as you were as a child.'_

_'Overcoming a single fear is nothing. You are pitiful.'_

_'It is your fault. It has always been your fault.'_

_'All of us are your fault.'_

An abrupt silence fell, leaving nothing but the sound of the waves. 

The Survivor wondered if she had imagined it all, or perhaps, the Keeper talked to himself during his nighttime musings. Her curiosity refused to abate, so she hoisted herself onto the roof.

She saw the Keeper on his knees with his head back, so his face was cast up at the night sky. The moonlight cast so strong a glow that the features of his face were nigh indistinguishable, and for a terrifying moment she thought he might be one of the faceless shadows in her life that merely disguised themselves as people.

She was so swept up in the possibility that she failed to see the others gathered around them. 

_'Who is she?'_

_'Who is she?'_

_'Who is she?'_

The Keeper's eyes snapped open as he turned to her, and she exhaled in relief when she saw that he was no more faceless than she. His eyes were brimming with horror... no, with terror. 

That was when she truly witnessed the world around her. The Keeper was surrounded by three figures who hovered like hummingbirds, flickering in the moonlight. Though they had semi-translucent bodies and faces, they all possessed gaping black holes where their eyes should have been.

The Survivor swallowed hard to quell the rising pitch of fear that threatened to spill out of her. The Keeper had told her he was haunted, and she had failed to grasp how literal his declaration had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In ancient Greek mythology, Melinoe was the bringer of madness and nightmares, later becoming known as the goddess of ghosts


	9. Nemesis, Adrasteia

_A very long time ago in the Great Untamed Ocean_ , the Sailor's brace nearly chaffed through his skin by midday, and by nightfall, he gave up on adjusting and readjusting it. They would be making port by mid-morning tomorrow with two days of shore leave, and he was determined to acquire a more suitable mechanism to aid his service.

The sailor had lost his hand when pirates boarded the ship not two weeks past, though he could recall nothing of the event itself. He had been manning a cannon with a fellow crewmate one moment, awaiting orders from the Captain, and then he was knocked to the ground as a furious cry echoed over the water.

By the accounts of the crew, he had drawn his blade before he fell to the deck, and his cutlass escaped him. No sooner had he reached out and reclaimed it with his left hand then a scalawag swooped in and cut off the offending appendage to relieve him of his weapon. As far as could recall, however, there was nothing more than blackness and a horrific, radiating pain that emanated from his wrist.

The Bayman saved his life by cauterizing the wound and then salvaged his career by providing a makeshift brace and a temporary hook. The Acting Captain ordered him to rest, only allotting him light duties after much pleading on his part.

Wounded soldiers often had time to heal, but any sailor missing a member had to prove his salt before the navy caught wind of it and discharged him. It was a known truth from the bottom of the Southern Crescent to the top of Northedge, and he planned to prove his worth beyond question.

He rose with the first shift on the next morning to assist with docking. The Acting Captain retained a few men to mind the ship before formally announcing shore leave, and the crew filed off the ship in jubilation, the Sailor among them.

He found the blacksmith first. The Smithie was an older man with a long, silver beard and white streaks in his otherwise dark, dark hair. The man was far from wanting in business, yet he promised the Sailor three new hooks the next morning for his inspection.

Flush with success, the Sailor proceeded to the best Healer in port, a man widely known for his abilities. In fact, many stories imbued the man with a kind of power - magic, as the tales went - that revived even those on threshold of death. 

Though he was no nearer to dying today than he had been on any other, the Sailor decided the best Healer would provide him with the best chance of enabling him to continue in the service. That was how he came to be outside the Practice of the White Whale, a curious name for a curious doctor. 

The Healer's renown had drawn countless others, so the Sailor spent the better part of the day waiting in a small, overcrowded room on the hopes that there would be time yet to have his complaint heard. It came to the point where he feared that he would be forced to return tomorrow at the earliest possible hour just to confer with the Healer once, and he wondered if he might not be better off requesting aid from a less popular physician, lest he miss his only opportunity to seek true medical aid till they reached port in the Midlands, nearly three months hence.

"Excuse me, Sailor?" the young man who had requested his name hours previously asked. "The doctor will see you now."

The majority of the room through him jealous or angry stares as he followed the Healer's Assistant to the back room, though he could hardly blame them. Moments ago, he would've gladly joined in their ire had another's name been called.

The backroom was larger than he thought, with a high ceiling, and was stocked with a number of uncomfortable looking instruments. The Assistant shut him inside, and he waited for what seemed like hours. He wondered if they had forgotten about him, locked up and gone home, leaving him like some wayward traveler without a second thought or care.

He was about to leave to inquire after the time when a man came into the room. He had fair, somewhat ruddy skin with oddly fine features. His youth could no more be denied than the nose on his face, yet the shock of white hair atop his head suggested more years than the Bayman. His eyes were a pale blue, like the color a man's lips turn when he's been too long in cold water.

"I'm Doctor Victor White, or the Healer, if you will. My apologies for the wait," he announced, his smugness and superiority a match for a man with his far-reaching reputation. "I always make time for a sailor the day he arrives. I know you don't have much time ashore, and I appreciate you coming to me. Now, before we begin, I have a few questions."

No doubt the Healer was foreign, for the navy had sent the Sailor across the world, from the Southern Crescent to the end of Northedge, and nowhere had he ever heard anyone announce his title and born name in one sentence. It was a strange custom, and his continued practice of it was surely aberrant in this area. He didn't have long to think on it, however, for the Healer began to ask endless questions.

In fact, there were a tedious number of inquiries regarding his name, birth, and the ship on which he sailed. Then he had to explain his injury, even after he admitted that his knowledge of events was second hand. Thereafter, the Healer asked him to remove the brace, and the Sailor obliged.

"If you don't mind me saying," the Healer began. "I don't have occasion to meet many people who travel, and I've certainly never met anyone with so interesting a name. Tell me, do you know why your parents chose Killian?"

The Sailor flinched at the sound of his born name, though he understood the man's curiosity, for nearly anyone who had heard his born name had asked him the same question. Though it was a rare occasion, he doubted many others would've minded the question as much as he did, for truth be told, he had no idea whatsoever as to why he was named Killian. Both his middle and surname were for his father, Brennan Jones, but he never met the man. He had been raised by his decade-older brother, Liam, who was all the family he had known before they joined the navy. 

When Liam was promoted to Lieutenant, he was commissioned to another ship, and the brothers had been separated ever since. The Sailor had always hoped their commissions might dovetail in the future, that he might serve under the best man he had ever known, but there were a few times when he was happy their service had diverged. Had Liam been aboard during this last mission, he would've faced the same pirates who took both the Captain and his hand.

"I didn't mean to bring up a sore subject," the Healer said, misreading the Sailor's silence as offense.

"It's hardly sore," the Sailor replied. "Nothing like this."

He held up his stump, which looked particularly limp and broken with all the chaffed and blistered skin.

"Ah, may I?" the Healer asked, indicating a desire to inspect the wound.

The Sailor nodded and held his stump out as far as he could, and the Healer reached out, supporting his bruised upper arm to better inspect the injury. It wasn't physically painful beyond pressing against a fresh bruise, but there was deep, abiding ache from having someone so closely inspect such an ugly part of himself. He answer the Healer's question more to distract himself than anything else. 

"As far as I know, none in my family share my born name. My brother insisted that our mother selected it, though no one in her family had it, either. Before she passed, she told him that she wanted me to have something of my own, something no one else I'd ever meet would have. Having little in the way of goods or money and nothing in the way of titles, she afforded me a unique name."

"Ah," the Healer remarked, though it seemed like he hadn't heard a word of it. "Well, mothers do their best, don't they?"

"I hardly knew mine," the Sailor replied. "I can't remember her."

"The same with me, as it happens," the Healer said as he stepped away. "You are a lucky man."

"You have an interesting vantage point on the nature of luck," the Sailor retorted.

The Healer turned his back and began riffling through the cabinets and drawers. He returned with a small, dark jar with a large stopper secured by a length of rope.

"The way I see it, that wound would've killed most men," the Healer said. "Any who survived it would hardly be able to support weight on the stump or surrounding tissue, let alone tolerate that makeshift monstrosity you've been wearing."

"The Bayman had few supplies," the Sailor said defensively. "He did more than most."

"I'm not criticizing," The Healer replied, though it was quite obvious that was exactly what he had been doing moments ago. "I can tell that the injury is quite recent and that it was expertly treated. You would be dead had that not been the case. I appreciate the efforts of your Bayman, and I'm sure you do as well. My concern, however, is for the broken skin and, to a lesser extent, the bruising."

"I can outlast the blisters until they callous over," the Sailor replied. "I endured as much with my hands, when I had both of them."

"While I can understand the parallel," The Healer began. "It's not the same. Blisters like this won't callous as your hands did, and if they become infected... the limb is compromised enough."

"So what do you suggest?" the Sailor asked. "I need two hands - or one hand and something comparable - to continue my service."

"If that's your intent, then let me fit you with a proper brace," the Healer said. "First things first, take this salve. Apply it to the blisters once before bed, once in the morning until they heal completely. If there is any additional swelling or redness, discontinue the brace for a few days of rest. I'm certain that your Captain will understand."

The Sailor wanted to point out that the Healer had obviously never served aboard a vessel, but he resisted the urge. He simply nodded his head, yes.

"How soon can you arrange for a brace?" the Sailor asked. "We leave port not tomorrow morning, but the next."

"Well, then we'd better fit you right now," the Healer replied.

 

Several incredibly uncomfortable hours later, the Sailor paid the Healer nearly all of his coin for a much-improved brace and the salve for his skin. He had just enough to pay the Smithie, so with a heavy heart he returned to the ship, as he was unable to pay for lodging at the tavern.

He left the ship at dawn the next day, arriving at the blacksmith just as he opened. Though he was sorry to be parted with the last of his funds, he walked away with three new hooks of superb quality, and he could hardly lament their cost.

He walked around the market a few times, glancing at the many things he could no longer purchase. It was strange. Yesterday, when he had coin in his pocket, he hardly gave anything a second glance. Yet now that he had none to offer, he coveted something from every shop.

To resist temptation, he returned to the harbor and spent the rest of his free hours watching the comings and goings on from a high hill. He would've spent the rest of his day there, but his stomach demanded sustenance. He had but one option, to return to the ship's mess.

"Permission to come aboard!" he asked, his back rigid and his head held high.

"Granted, Sailor," the Acting Captain replied. "Report to my quarters immediately."

The Sailor obeyed, expecting a command to remain aboard for the remainder of their time in port. He thought they'd meet in the First Mate's cabin, but they continued on to the Captain's quarters.

"I was named Captain by the Admiral this morning," the Acting Captain - now Captain - explained as he opened the door. "Please, sit."

The Sailor sat down at the Captain's dining table, which would normally be a great honor, but something about the way the Captain spoke that told him that this was not about honor.

"The Admiral was in port because his ship was attacked by pirates not one week past, not far from this harbor," the Captain continued. "They were not nearly as lucky. They suffered dozens of casualties and the ship required a full week's worth of repairs, though, through good fortune, she will set sail tomorrow with us as her escort."

"We're to escort the Admiral?" the Sailor asked, not bothering to hide the awe in his voice. It was an incredible honor for a new Captain and his crew.

"Tomorrow morn, as planned," the Captain replied. "But the Admiral brought disturbing news that concerns you, Sailor, or rather, your brother."

"My brother?" the Sailor repeated. "Did he... is he among the dead?"

"No, it were better if he was," the Captain said.

The Sailor rose to his feet in a fit of fury. Who would dare say such a thing about his brother? No matter how badly he was wounded, he had served the navy with honor and good form. Who that sailed under that same flag dared wish him dead?

"Sit down, Sailor," the Captain ordered.

He obliged, though the fierce anger raged on inside him as he waited for the Captain explain himself.

"Your brother was not injured," the Captain said. "Nearly a dozen sailors under the Admiral's command saw him fight quite formidably under the pirate's flag. This confirms reports that your brother has turned against King and country."

"He would never do that," the Sailor replied. "Never. Not so long as he lived."

"The Admiral did not believe it either," the Captain continued. "You two once served under him back when he was a Captain. He trained you both. He told anyone who would listen that Lieutenant Liam Jones is no traitor. But he was among the dozen sailors who saw him. Your brother isn't just a pirate, he is the Pirate Captain."

"No, that can't be true," the Sailor muttered. "He'd never... he couldn't do such a thing."

"I told the Admiral that those same pirates took your left hand," the Captain continued. "I explained to him that there is no way you could be in league with your brother, or any pirate for that matter, but as we are escorting the Admiral to safety, he cannot risk being wrong about both of you. You are hereby discharged of your service from this vessel and all others in the Royal Navy, till a time when your commission can be formally reviewed. The Royal Navy will send word of your new assignment, I have no doubt in that, Sailor."

The Sailor was too shocked to say anything. His brother, a pirate? It was as impossible as taking up the jolly roger himself. How long would it take the Navy to realize their mistake? He had spent his last coin in port so that he could have the means to continue his service.

"I realize that this news comes as a shock," the Captain continued. "And, knowing your dedication to the service, I am aware that you have spent most of your earnings to treat your injury."

"All of it," the Sailor replied. "I spent all of it."

"Which is why I've arranged additional payment, though I will admit, it isn't much," the Captain said, placing a small coin purse on the table. "The navy expects you to remain at this port. Finding a job with your skillset will be no trouble at all, but the decree set down by the Admiral forbids you from serving on any crew, even for a private vessel."

"I'm to remain on land?" the Sailor asked.

It was the last blow he could take. The false accusations against his brother, being suspended from the service, and now abandoned in Northedge until some distant panel meted out his fate? What kind of madman ordered a perfectly fine Sailor to never board another ship?

"If you defy these orders, Sailor, the Navy will discharge you without question," the Captain said. "I'm certain you will find work at the port, even if it is beneath you. Now, you have your orders, Sailor. You have an hour to pack your things, say your goodbyes, and leave my ship."

The Sailor was too confused to do anything but follow his training, which told him to stand up, stand ready, and reply to his Captain with respect.

"Aye, aye, Captain," he said, though the misery in his voice was quite apparent.

He turned on his heels and left the cabin, gathering his paltry possessions before ascending to deck. He cast a wary eye over the place he had called home for many years, wondering if the crew would know of his discharge or if they would be left to assume his injury was too much for him to bear in service. It took nearly all the strength he had to step over the threshold of the ship onto the docking plank, and as he walked away, he remembered he had returned for the mess. But his hunger had been forgotten in the wake of the announcement, and as he made his way through the throng of nameless people in the market, he wondered if he'd ever feel the pangs of hunger again.

 

The Sailor received word nigh six months later when a Messenger delivered an envelope bearing the official seal of the Royal Navy. The first letter informed the Sailor that he had been discharged from service evermore due to his injury. The second letter was obviously an unofficial enclosure, for the handwriting suggested that a serviceman under the Naval Commission penned it rather than a scribe.

_Dear Sailor (born KBJ):_

_I made several attempts to send word through unofficial channels, but I fear none have reached you, as Northedge is not known for its reliability in that regard, and I would not wish such vital news to be lost to you until some manner of rumor or half-truth finds its way to you. It is for this alone that I include this note in your official discharge, which has a guaranteed manner and method of delivery. I wish to emphasize that the information I hereafter impart had absolutely no barring upon the decision of the Royal Naval Commission._

_Some eight weeks prior to the writing of this letter, the Admiral (born RHL) captured the notorious Pirate Captain who went by the moniker Captain Drake. His defeat and arrest revealed his true identity, Lieutenant (born LMJ) of the Royal Naval, and thereafter was remanded to the Court of the Royal Navy, where he was tried fairly, found guilty, and executed two days prior to the writing of this letter. Though he requested a burial at sea, the Royal Navy order his remains cremated, and the Admiral had his ashes interred in a pauper's field, for he refused to lay him to rest in the same place as the many mariners that died at the behest of the Pirate Captain._

_I write to you with neither remorse nor regret, for there is no doubt in my mind - nor anyone else's - that the man was guilty beyond reproach. Yet I am sorry to see another sailor, especially one so dedicated to the service, suffer on the Pirate Captain's account. As he is your brother, his loss must grieve you deeply._

_I am sincerely and forever yours,  
The Constable (born WS)_

With a shaking hand, the Sailor re-read the first letter, which thanked him for his years of service by providing a generous severance that would cover his cost of living for many a year. Sure enough, notes worth several hundred gold coin were clipped inside the envelope. Once the Messenger witness the discovery of the currency within, he curtly bowed to the former Sailor and took his leave.

Now alone, he read over the letters again and again, certain he merely dreamed this terrible nightmare, and it would not be long before the cock crowed, waking him from his slumber. His brother was a good man who would rather die than betray his loyalties. He'd never become a pirate, yet his own country found him guilty. 

The Royal Navy had tried his only living kin without sending him word, without affording him the opportunity to speak on his brother's behalf. Surely a citizen - let alone a Sailor whose service earned thanks - had the right to know about his brother's capture, trial, and subsequent verdict. Did he not have the right to speak to him one last time before his execution? To handle the final will and testament of his brother? To attend to his brother's remains? Yet the only reason he received news at all was some stranger - an unfamiliar Constable - had both the compassion and presence of mind to scribe a missive and took extraordinary measures to ensure its arrival.

The former Sailor looked over the letter again, searching for any vague reference or veiled allusion to a shared past between the Constable and either himself or his brother. The man - his sex was apparent from his penmanship - acknowledged individuals by a combination of their title and birth initials, a common practice to disambiguate strangers, yet he knew all three initials of both his and his brother's born names, which suggested more than a passing familiarity. The fact that he wrote the letter at all suggested the same, for most would do whatever possible to distance themselves from convicted traitors and their kin. 

The Constable denoted the Admiral as RHL, Robin Hood of Locksley, which meant he probably spent some time serving under him, for only those who served the man had cause to know his middle name. The valediction - _sincerely and forever yours_ \- was odd, both for a seafaring man and a stranger, as was his choice to sign only two initials despite addressing all others with three.

 _Unless he only has two initials_ , he thought, for orphans often only possessed a single name before they grew to an age when they could earn a title and position. Then they oft selected a surname, though it was never a proper family name like Jones or Locksley. It was fashionable to choose a natural element - Snow, Rain, Fire - but traditionally, orphans took colors for family names.

 _Will Scarlet_ , he recalled. _A thief who took on commission to avoid prison, or so it was said of him._

He had served as a Cabin Boy when the former Sailor and his brother were Trainees under the Admiral, back then the Captain. With any luck, he would thank the Constable born William Scarlet in person for his trouble. 

The former Sailor counted his severance. It was enough to make a return trip home, and once there, he could dig up his brother's ashes. Even if the Admiral persisted in his refusal of a burial at sea, at least he could lay him to rest in a plot near their mother's. It was the least he could do for the man who raised him.

Bitterness boiled inside him. Had the Royal Navy known that the Lieutenant had spent all his youth raising his younger brother, would they still have failed to notify him? He had sworn his life in service to his country, yet they denied him the most basic right: to say goodbye to someone he loved.

He had all but made his plans when he noticed a third missive tied to the back of the last note of currency, and it was as official as his discharge. At first glance, it appeared to be a pronouncement, and he assumed that it rescinded the order that kept him landlocked and asserted his right to serve aboard private ships, as he was no longer in the service of the Royal Navy, and therefore, they had no reason to restrict his activities.

_By order of the Royal Naval Commission of the Midlands:_

_Let it be known that, on this day, for all of time forward, that the former Sailor born Killian Brennan of the family Jones will be forbidden from service aboard any seafaring vessel, public or private, be it from the Midlands, Northedge, or the Southern Crescent._

_Let it be known from sea to sea, from the Great Untamed Ocean to the Endless Sea down to the Sea of Sorrow._

He read it over twice, not believing the words before him, which burned into his eyes as proof that the navy had found him guilty of piracy without a trial. A lifelong ban from service at sea was the kind of punishment they meted out in such cases.

Disgusted, the former Sailor ripped through the decree with his hook, allowing the shreds to fall to the floor, but it failed to alleviate his grief and anger. No doubt, the Messenger had handed the notice to every Dockmaster in Northedge before delivering the letter, for those were the standard orders for Messengers traveling afar on business for the Royal Navy.

No captain would dare take him on in any capacity. It would take weeks before he found a vessel that would accept him as a passenger, and he'd have to spend every penny of his severance just to make it to the Midlands. Then he would have no means for traveling on land the rest of the way home. 

It would take months - no, years - to save enough currency to bury his brother properly. And then what would he do? He had nothing in the way of family in the Midlands. An honorable former Sailor with one hand would be a fine match for many potential spouses, but now his surname came with the taint of piracy. And though the navy did not condemn him formally, they abandoned him in Northedge with a pittance and revoked his right to a life on the sea, which was the only life he knew. There was no doubt that all the Midlands would see that as a punishment, his life only spared because the navy hesitated those to kill those dismembered in its service.

So they saw to it that there would be no way for him to return home, lest he pollute the next generation, and they likewise ensured he would never bury his own brother. That last indignity was the one he could not abide, for he had given not just his hand to the service but his heart as well. In return, they stole every duty and honor from him, leaving him to rot in some faraway country, never to think on him again.

The former Sailor took the letter of his discharge and the Constable's note and tucked them into his breast pocket, for they were things that he needed to remember. His own country had besmirched his family name and betrayed their promises to a good man, and he vowed that he would never again put his heart and his service into the hands of others. 

From that day forward, he never spoke to anyone unless it was in regard to work or wage. He soon learned that he had no love of drink or singing nor any other thing that he once shared in the company of others.

And above all else, he refused a title, only accepting work on a day-to-day basis, being paid a fair wage with no name other than Stranger. But after a time, people began to call him the Recluse, and he had no recourse against it. What else would a mariner banned from the sea become when all his living kin were dead and gone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Greek goddess Nemesis was the deity of divine retribution and a terrifying force of revenge. One of her epitaphs was Adrasteia, meaning "the inescapable."


	10. The Mask of Lethe

The Keeper fell to his knees and looked up at the stars, the glimmering embers flickering in the endless blackness. It did nothing to stop the whispering - the words - from cutting into him, but it prevented the ghastly specters from clouding his vision and shaking his resolve. 

There were always three spirits that haunted him, and only on rare occasion did others appear to him. The three regulars had a familiarity to him that he could not account for, though he attributed that to the gaping holes that once had been their eyes. Each one spoke to him in a voice from beyond the grave, making them unrecognizable to the ear as much as the eye. At times, he thought them inhuman beings, but they only certainty he possessed was that they were tied to the moon like the tides. When it was at its fullest, they were at their strongest, and when it waned, they, too, became lesser versions of themselves.

When they spoke, they always told him the truth - or what he believed to be the truth - about the worst parts of himself. They reminded him that he was a coward who hid from the world.

He had spent countless hours wondering why they tormented him, and the only sensible answer was these were once living people who knew him well, though he did not recognize nor remember any of his ghosts. Perhaps forgetting was part of his punishment: never recollecting enough to ask forgiveness or absolution so he could never move on.

Long ago, he decided that he must've been responsible for their deaths, however far removed he was from the actual events. Tradition in Northedge held that anyone haunted by spirits was dangerous, for those who spoke with anything or anyone from the great beyond knew more than any living soul ever should. His only reprieve in all this was that none but he could see or hear his tormentors, so when they first came to him during his time as the Recluse, the trio had gone unnoticed by all others, even under the full moon.

He had no reason to suspect that anything had changed in the years between then and now, so when the Survivor appeared - announced by a ghastly chorus of questions - his only fear was that she would think him rude should she try and fail to engage him in conversation. How could he explain himself?

She stood to the east with her long golden locks shining in the moonlight. No doubt she saw the panic on his face when he turned to look at her, for there was no way for him to avoid that particular emotion when he simultaneously encountered the living and the dead.

The whispers became roars, and the Survivor's eyes fell upon each spirit, slowly moving from one to another.

 _Bloody hell_ , he thought. _She can see them._

After an eternity, she spoke the ghosts and asked, "Who are you?" 

His heart jumped into his throat. For as long as he had memories, engaging these ghastly creatures brought nothing but misery. They grew stronger with every word spoken to them from a living soul. The Survivor might earn her curiosity... and for helping him.

A gasping wind went up followed by the sound of rising whispers, and the spirits shined impossibly white against the moon and stars. In the next instant, they vanished, leaving the Survivor and the Keeper alone atop Stagrock Light.

* * *

The Survivor helped the Keeper down to his chamber, despite his constant insistence that he did not require any aid. She went so far as to sit him down on his own bed before she desisted. He was relieved until she stopped on the threshold of the door and turned back to him.

"Did you kill them?" she asked.

"What?" he said automatically. The world left his mouth before he truly understood the question.

"I was wondering if... if you killed them."

"I can't... I... I don't know who they are," he replied.

"The dead only trouble those they knew in life," she said. "So you must have known them."

"Perhaps," he said. "But that is not your burden to bare. Thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to rest before dawn."

"One of them," she began hesitantly. "The sailor. He seemed... familiar. Maybe it was just the naval uniform."

"Aye, no doubt someone I served with many years ago."

"More than that," she continued. "He had... something of you in him. He could've been your brother."

"I never had a brother," he replied, his voice harsh from the lie he didn't mean to speak. "Goodnight, Survivor."

She turned away quickly, so he wouldn't see her reaction, a combination of disappointment and confusion.

The Survivor knew when someone lied to her for as far back as she could remember. She spoke of it as if it were a superpower, a magical way of detecting deception, a natural gift for the one job she was born to do. She tried to see it that way, but truth be told, it was a tiresome ability that she chronically wished she could turn off, even if only for a little while. It was maddening, knowing every lie as soon as it tumbled from someone's lips. She became a cop because it was the only job where her chronic suspicion and never-ending mistrust of people was an advantage.

The trouble with lies was the many forms in which they came, the myriad ways they fashioned themselves: white lies, half-truths, secrets, platitudes, delusions, wishful thinking, deception, self-preservation, hopes, dreams, uncertainties. The true variation came from intent - why the lie was spoken - and she had no means to divine reasons behind a falsehood. Her "gift" didn't afford her that knowledge, which created all kinds of repercussions.

Once, back when she was fresh from the academy, she took a statement from a man on All Soul's Day. He was so scared that she spent over an hour talking him down, and then another hour convincing him to give a statement, explaining why he came to the station.

He proceeded to tell her that his son had gone missing. One second, he was holding his boy's hand; the next, he was gone. He desperately searched for his boy, but nobody would help him. Before she could press him for details, he became senselessly inconsolable to the point of incomprehensibility, and nothing she said or did calmed him. So she called in emergency medical responders and left him in their care while she set out to open her first missing person's case.

Luckily, the First Deputy was her training officer and kept a weathered eye on her, so he stopped her from going straight to the Sheriff with her request. As it transpired, the man who she had just interviewed - born Marco Workman - never had a son, only a puppet he fashioned himself from wood. It was common knowledge that he acted as if August - that was the name he gave it - were a real child, right up to the day flash flooding pulled the marionette from his arms on the morning of All Soul's a very, very long time ago. Every year since, he turned up at the police station on the anniversary of August's disappearance, searching for his "lost boy."

She was shocked, for the man hadn't spoken a lie. Indeed, he had relayed the facts with no attempt to mislead her; in his mind, he had lost his son and wanted to find him. He believed the delusion so deeply that, to him, it was the truth.

That was her "gift," her superpower. She knew every time her friends told her she looked nice so as to not hurt her feelings, but she couldn't see past an old man's delusion. She had ruined dozens of relationships over the years when her friends lied about surprised or something they didn't want to talk about because she couldn't forget that they had lied to her. 

No one should have that kind of ability.

The Keeper had never lied to her before, and she thought it was odd that he chose to lie to her about his kin. He had a brother.

She swallowed hard and dismissed all thought on the matter. Obsessing over other people's reasons for lying had caused her naught but misery.

"Right, sleep well," she replied to the Keeper. "Good night."

There was no way for her to know that he didn't know why he lied about his brother. Perhaps it was because it had been so long since he had any reason to speak, let alone speak of him, that it was easier to dismiss it all with a falsehood than invite a painful conversation with the truth.

The Keeper collapsed on the floor, his body curled against the door as his breath became ragged. He had lost his brother. He knew this as much as he knew he lost his left hand, yet he failed to do right by him. He hadn't even been able to lay his remains to rest. He never returned to the Midlands after the decree, and every day since, he had done nothing but forget about his past life, living alone in the dark, too far gone to even hope for something better.

Liam would be ashamed of him. 

"I am sorry, brother," he whispered to the darkness. "I am so, so sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lethe translates to 'oblivion' or 'concealment.' Lethe was either a spirit or goddess who embodied the personification of forgetfulness and unmindfulness. In the Underworld, the spirits of the dead had to drink from her river to forget their mortal lives that they might be among those reborn into the world.


	11. A Tribute from Lycaon

_A few weeks ago in the Midlands_ , the Bailiff tied the Barkeep's body to his great silver mare, covering him with a blanket. He hated the man for his many slanders and sins, but even he didn't deserve to have his body left and rotting for days on end. The mare would race through the woods and, in due course, return home so that he could be buried. So he could be at rest. 

Even though the bastard didn't deserve dignity, repose, nor a final farewell.

The Bailiff had put the Sheriff to bed hours ago, and he didn't have the heart to wake so early. Once he loosed the mare, they would have to leave on the hour, lest someone come looking for answers too soon.

The Bailiff - or rather, the former Bailiff, owing to his circumstances - considered their situation. They had managed to hide in the countryside for weeks, but solely because keeping the pronouncement quiet had been paramount. The Deputies had assumed quite rightly that the Sheriff would return so long as she remained unaware that she no longer had a title or position, but keeping that secret required withholding information from local authorities, who wouldn't waste resources on a request like finding somebody else's Sheriff, especially if they caught wind that she was on a romantic getaway.

But once the Barkeep's death was deemed a homicide, all the Midlands would know of the pronouncement within the next rise and fall of the sun.

There was only one option. With neither the time nor the means to bribe passage to the Northmost Lands and no real prospects escaping to the Southern Crescent, the only way to avoid capture was to hide and wait out the manhunt.

And there was but one place to do it: Bald Mountain Reserve, a stretch of protected wilderness that went right up to the ocean. Just thinking about the location made his insides wretch and his skin crawl, but his devastating fear of forests was as widely known as the Sheriff's terror of the sea. The very last place the Bailiff and the Sheriff would ever travel in tandem was a dense thicket of woods on a peninsula. And that was why they need to go there, where no one would bother looking for them.

Over the years, countless acquaintances and more than a few friends suggested he overcome his childhood fear of dying alone in the woods by venturing into the forest and facing it head-on. Naturally, he avoided that particular recommendation for one reason or another. Why bother conquering a fear that never impinged on his day-to-day life? It wasn't as if they held court in the jungle. Why relive the childhood trauma of being abandoned in the woods by his parents? He had his fill of that when he accidentally read the story of Hansel and Gretel, which forced him to realize that his parents had not only been cruel, but they hadn't even bothered with an original means to execute said cruelty. 

The excuses kept changing because in truth, he was simply too afraid. He had nearly died once in the woods during a time when he was supposed to be sheltered, loved, and protected. Ever since he woke up in the hospital surrounded by inquisitive strangers at age eight, he refused to set foot in the forest again. Even an area too thick with trees would deter him, though that had eased somewhat with time.

The Sheriff - the former Sheriff - could lead them to one of the cabins deep inside Bald Mountain Reserve, for among the many benefits of its wilderness habitat were incredibly tall trees that obstructed the view of the water from nearly everywhere. She would neither hear nor see the ocean, which left them with only one problem: himself. The Bailiff had to find a way because thinking about it was enough to put him in a panic. He sincerely wondered if a lifetime in jail would be worse in comparsion.

There were a number of nerve tonics, but his past experiences taught him not to trust their efficacy. However, the few sleeping draughts he had tried had been very effective. The Swan's cottage would have everything he required. Once his anxiety and paranoia of the forest began to influence his behavior, he would drink the concoction to put himself out. The Sheriff would have to tie him to his saddle - not unlike what he had done for the Barkeep's body - and then she could lead his horse into the densest part of the woods, and he'd be none the wiser.

Even imagining the scenario made him lightheaded. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, desperately searching for the strength he needed to move forward with his own plan.

As if in answer to his prayer, a wolf appeared before him with one black eye and one red. Something about it was familiar, even comforting. He opened his eyes, almost expecting the grey canine to stand before him, but there was only the silver mare and her deceased rider.

Despite the wolf being an image in his head, he was stronger for picturing it.

"Go on then, lass," he whispered to the horse. "Ride well."

He released the silver mare before turning back to the cottage. The Sheriff was in for a rude awakening, and those never pleased her. Best to get it over with quickly.

* * *

The Sheriff and the Bailiff no longer possessed those titles, but with no other positions to substitute for personal reference, they continued to think of and speak of themselves as such. They disembarked immediately and rode hard through the night so that they arrived at the edge of Bald Mountain Reserve by the next dawn. 

As all protected lands, Bald Mountain Reserve was encircled by a stretch of impassible landscape. High ridged cliffs flanking a wide river with a furious current cut off approach from the north and the west. The Endless Sea protected the east as well as the peninsula that made up most of the reserve. The only border afforded no natural protection was the south, so the builders of the Midlands long ago augmented nature's defenses with deep trenches and boulders scattered throughout the brush, forcing travelers to face a tedious and cumbersome passage that possessed many deadly dangers to ensnare even the most seasoned hikers.

The limited entryways enabled scouts and rangers to identify all travelers coming and going, lest they be poachers or any other manner of criminal that sought to destroy the beauty and life of the protected lands within. Of course, any scout or ranger worth the salt they sweated would likewise spot any fugitives that passed into the reserve and report it to those in authority, or worse, call in bounty hunters to track and trap the reprobates.

Their long ride in the shadows had prevented them from contact with others, giving them no chance to hear news, so they didn't know if the manhunt for them had yet begun. Still, the Sheriff insisted they acted as if the worst had come to pass, for it was better to travel haltingly in the shadows and succeed in their escape than to race foolishly ahead and be captured for their troubles.

So, already exhausted from their journey, they hit barrier after barrier, forcing them to weigh options neither wished to consider. He suggested abandoning the horses, for they could sneak across the southern border on foot without being detected if they had no steeds to lead. This began a particularly bitter debate between the two, for while the Bailiff saw it as a practical sacrifice, the Sheriff saw it as a form of dismal surrender.

"After you drink your sleeping draught, how will I carry you miles deep into the reserve?" she asked pointedly.

To quell his fears, he had purposely avoided thinking about that part of the plan, so he hadn't considered it. Her point remained valid. He wouldn't be able to walk into the woods, and she couldn't carry his unconscious body and all their supplies.

"Then let's loose one of the horses," he suggested. "It'll be faster than leading them both across the border."

"And what would happen when someone finds the horse we leave behind?" she asked. "Even a kid would know it was lost, and anyone from New Brook could recognize either horse. It would be enough to draw attention here."

He insisted that would be an unlikely course of events, and she retorted that it was too likely to risk. And back and forth it went for the remainder of the afternoon, until they finally agreed that they wouldn't resolve their situation that day, not while they were so exhausted. The best course of action was to find cover and retire, resting until the sun went down. Then they could continue their fruitless mission under cover of night.

Thus, the Sheriff and the Bailiff sought a place to wait out the remainder of the heat and light of the day. A public place, such as an inn or stable, was too much of a risk. The Bailiff's condition prevented them from wandering into the shelter of the trees in search of a clearing; likewise, the Sheriff's fear of the sea prohibited them from seeking out a coastal bluff or similar hiding place near the shore.

She was prepared to hide in the largest shadow to the mountain with little more than hopeful desperation as camouflage, and he nearly submitted to it himself when something caught his attention. She didn't see it - or couldn't see it - and later, when he recounted what he witnessed, she scarcely believed him. But on his honor, he saw a great gray wolf with mismatched eyes of blood and darkness disappearing into the trees. Though she asked many times why he choose to race after an enormous wolf of all things, he never rightfully answered her, for he simply couldn't explain his actions. Neither did he understand why his steed - who was known for her dislike of all canines - didn't refuse his spur.

But once he galloped into the woods - a feat that the Bailiff thought himself incapable - she had to follow, her horse hastily crashing through the brush to find a path through the trees, gradually slowing to a tepid walk. When she caught up with him, he had dismounted to help an old man.

"Thank you kind sir," the old man said once he had his feet under him. "I was once the Ranger in these woods, though I've been retired for many years. Now I'm just a Hermit. I take it as a compliment."

The Hermit had been collecting firewood when he fell and badly injured his leg. Sharp rocks had torn through his trousers, and his blood flowed freely, a sign that the wound needed tending. But there was nowhere to treat him in the middle of the woods. The Sheriff didn't comment, for she feared even saying the word 'forest' might remind the Bailiff where he stood and eliminate his resolve.

"He needs help," the Bailiff said. "Could you treat his leg?"

"Do you have a cabin or anywhere we can take you?" she asked. "Somewhere with clean water and something we can use for bandages?"

"Indeed, I can guide you there," the Hermit replied. "It's not far."

The Bailiff helped the Hermit onto his horse and led the mare by the bridle, and the Sheriff followed on foot, leading her own horse. She couldn't tell if the Bailiff was putting on a good face, but if their situations were reversed, she wouldn't be upright and helping strangers. They had avoided stable masters and innkeepers for the sake of hiding, and she saw no reason to assume the Hermit would behave any differently. If law enforcement or bounty hunters spoke with him, he would likely impart every fact he possessed without hesitation.

The Hermit's cabin was a simple place with a sturdy well and post for tying horses. The Bailiff escorted the Hermit inside while the Sheriff saw to their steeds, and it occurred to her that this was a fine place to hide for the day, so long as the Hermit had no other guests.

Meanwhile, the Hermit disappeared into his bedroom, exchanging his trousers for cut-offs that appeared quite strange on him indeed. Then he sat by the fire, which burned well for having been left on its own for the better part of the day.

"We don't have much time," the Hermit said.

"Don't worry, the Sher - my friend is quite adept with treating these kinds of injuries," the Bailiff replied.

"Not my wound," the Hermit said. "I need to speak with you, Graham Humbert."

The Bailiff flinched upon hearing his born name, and his suspicions rose as quickly as a cat's hackles.

"Who are you?" he snarled. "What is this? A trap?"

"Far from it," the Hermit replied. "Please, before Miss Swan comes back. You have to listen to me."

The Bailiff hesitated. If this was a trap, a few seconds wouldn't give them much of a head start. 

"Speak quickly," the Bailiff said stiffly.

"You followed the wolf."

"What did you say?"

"The wolf. You followed it to me."

"How did you know about that?"

"Because I've been waiting for you for a very, very long time," the Hermit replied. "You and I have never met before, but we would have. That is why the wolf led you to me. It was the only way for you to know."

"Know what?"

"That you can trust me," the Hermit replied. "You are not Graham Humbert. That is just a name from a past life. A name that you obtained from a curse. Before that, you were known only as the Huntsman, and the wolf was your family. Your guardian."

"Past lives?" the Bailiff repeated. "Are you trying to tell me I'm haunted by past lives?"

"Not haunting you, guiding you," the Hermit explained. "Emma Swan and I met in that life. There I was called the Apprentice."

"Why are you telling me any of this?" the Bailiff asked. "It doesn't make any sense."

"You are facing your worst fear, and that is when all your other lives can be remembered. You will not be able to help Emma Swan until you remember who you are, Huntsman."

"You're mad," the Bailiff said in complete disbelief. 

"Follow the wolf," the Hermit whispered.

The Bailiff got to his feet, ready to roar at the man before him, but at that moment, the Sheriff entered. He froze somewhere between fury and panic, and he had no idea what to do next.

"Do you need the sleeping draught?" she asked, concerned.

She thought he was panicking over being in the woods, and he realized that, though much terrified him right now, the forest wasn't even a consideration.

"No," he replied. "I just need to sit down."

"I'll check his wound. Let me know if you need the draught," she said. "Better to take it if you're not sure. Can't have you running off."

"Don't fret," he said as he perched on a wooden chair. "Worry about him. Sounded a bit feverish a moment ago."

The Sheriff put the back of her hand against the Hermit's forehead, but of course there was no fever to find. She gathered a few supplies and cleaned the wound, and the whole time the Bailiff kept a watchful eye on the Hermit, unsure of what to make of him. 

If anyone wanted to win the Bailiff's mistrust, a stranger need only blurt out his born name as if they'd known each other their entire lives. Yet, there was something about the Hermit that made him second guess his knee-jerk reaction. He had known about the wolf, and somehow, that won him an undue measure of trust, though it went against his every instinct. He considered the other nonsense that the Hermit had spouted before the Sheriff interrupted, and he learned very little. He disliked riddles and hated puzzles. Those were more after the style of the Sheriff, but for some reason, the Hermit had spoken to her.

Somehow, the Bailiff knew that it was important to keeping the Sheriff safe, and for once in his life, he decided to follow that small voice inside his heart.

"Luckily, you won't need stitches," the Sheriff said as she covered his leg with a bandage. "Keep it clean and dry until it heals, even if that means keeping out of the woods."

"Thank you for your kindness," the Hermit replied. "I would like to repay you. Please, rest here as long as you need. I have food enough for all of us."

"Thank you," the Sheriff replied. 

"Perhaps tea is in order," the Hermit suggested.

Despite his wounded leg, the Hermit moved around his cabin swiftly, gathering a number of herbs and spices before he put the kettle over the fire. The Bailiff watched him closely. He wasn't sure what kind of mind game the Hermit had in store, but even the most elaborate tea in the world required only half the labor he performed. He finally laid out the tea and bread for them on a tray with a number of tiny cups, the kind that normally contained milk or honey. A quick glance told the Bailiff that these contained neither substance, for not only did each cup come from a different set with varying signs of wear and age but each one also contained a scentless amber liquid. Once the Hermit poured the tea, the smell of ginger and mint overwhelmed everything else.

"The tradition of tea is quite different where I come from," the Hermit explained. "Each of these can augment the brew, but only if the drinker is ready."

"What are they?" the Sheriff asked.

"The tea is ginger-mint, for clarity of mind and rousing hunger," he replied. "Each of these cups bares the color that symbolizes the tonic they contain. Green for honesty in memory, the truth of the past. Blue for strength and courage in the present. Red for hope in the future."

"Tonics?" the Bailiff asked, taking no care to hide his suspicion. "I'm guessing these aren't jasmine or turmeric."

"No," he replied. "These are powerful remedies, and you both have need for all three. But, please, if they offend you, you need not drink them. Enjoy the tea."

The Sheriff had no reason to fear the Hermit's intentions, and truth be told, neither did the Bailiff. He had wrestled with his doubt and decided to trust the wolf. So he added the red tonic to his tea before taking a sip. The ginger and mint had a new, spicy taste, like cinnamon and hot pepper.

"Really?" the Sheriff asked him skeptically.

"I think we could both use some hope," he replied.

They whiled the afternoon away, listening to the Hermit describe all the animals in the forest and the landscape. The Sheriff said nothing to the Bailiff, but his strength impressed her. Never before had she seen anyone so boldly and calmly face their fear, and the only sign that anything was amiss was the occasional tremble of his hands. She was almost envious of him.

The Hermit had to tend to things around his property, so the Bailiff rested on the couch while the Sheriff kept an eye on the old man.

She must've fallen asleep at some point, for suddenly it was nigh dusk, and the Hermit was nowhere to be seen. She found the Bailiff fast asleep on the couch by the fire, and for a fleeting moment, she feared that the Hermit might've drugged their tea and fled to report them.

But when she turned around, he was sitting at the dining table with a smile on his face.

"Do you remember me, Emma Swan?" he asked.

The last man to use her full born name was her father, and she disliked its sound upon a stranger's lips. Her expression betrayed her sentiment, for the Hermit continued before she had a chance to respond.

"You do not," he replied. "That is troubling."

"Who are you?" she asked. "How do you know my name?"

"Please, sit."

She joined him at the table but only to gage his intentions. There was a strong possibility that her parents had sent this man to help her. The only contradiction to her theory was the cabin itself, which was clearly well-lived in and had been for some time.

"When we last met, I was called the Apprentice," he said. "Do you remember me at all?"

"No," she replied immediately. "Listen to me, my traveling companion and I are in hiding. It's important that no one knows we came through here. Whatever you think you know about me, forget it."

"I give you my solemn vow that I will tell no one of our meetings," he said.

He was telling the truth.

"I am only here to help you and your traveling companion get to where you are going," he continued. "I had hoped the tonics would help revive your memories, and they may yet succeed, though how long it will take, I cannot say. But in the meantime, you must know that not everyone in this life is real. Some people are like empty slates, mere echoes and copies of real people."

"If you're trying to scare me, you've failed," she retorted as she stood up. "We're not hollow puppets."

"Indeed not," he said. "In time, as you begin to remember, your mind will begin to identify those people in your life who were false inventions or replicas. Then they will manifest themselves - in life as well as your recollections - without faces."

"Faceless people?" the Sheriff asked. "What does this have to do with you? Why do you care?"

"Because, Emma Swan, in another life, we were friends, after a fashion," he replied. "And if I can help you in this life, or any other, then I will."

Again, the man told her the truth.

"You know my name," she said. "Do you know his as well?"

"I do."

"And do you know why we are here?"

"Not the specifics," he replied. "I know you were the Sheriff and the Bailiff. Until recent events forced you to become the Fugitive and the Accomplice."

"The Accomplice?" she repeated.

"That is what the news calls you," he replied. "Have no fear. No one will know you and through these woods."

The Sheriff - or as she was more aptly called now, the Fugitive - knew that this man spoke the truth. But the fact that she would speak with a complete stranger on these matters so frankly and trust him was ludicrous, superpower or no.

 _Unless you knew him in a past life_ , her mind nagged her.

"Have faith, Emma Swan," the Hermit said. "One day, you will understand why I sent you on this path, and you will cast the ghosts that haunt you aside for better and brighter days."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lycaon was the king of Arcadia. He cooked Nyctimus, son of Zeus, and served him to his father to see if the deity was truly all-knowing. As punishment for this act, Zeus transformed Lycaon and all his descendants into wolves.


	12. The Marionette of Aletheia

The Survivor saw very little of the Keeper over the next week. Given the size of the scope of his duties, she couldn't be certain if he was avoiding her company or was engaged in too much business to be bothered. They spoke briefly before breakfast and after dinner, but they hadn't shared a meal together since her first night in the lighthouse.

Of course, had he been avoiding her, it was well within reason. Not only had she discovered the spirits haunting him, she had also confessed herself a murderer. Thus, the Keeper of Stagrock learned that he harbored a fugitive, a particularly ridiculous peril, given that they were in the Northmost Lands, where anyone could wash away past crimes by uttering a few simple words.

Though she had seen only a little in the way of his character, he didn't appear a man who tolerated the company of others against his own wishes. He could've sent her away or left her to live out her days in the miserable cellar on that tiny island, only allowing her sanctuary in the lighthouse when a delivery came due from the Dockmaster. Yet he hadn't. Instead, he extended her every courtesy and kindness, and the only matter that gave her pause was his now-constant absence from the lighthouse, where she promise to reside until she declared her loyalties.

If the Survivor was being honest with herself, she would admit her concern for the Keeper's behavior bothered her, so much so that she had to distract herself from it. She had always avoided housework and cooking, yet since the move to Stagrock, she had taken its general care and upkeep upon herself. It hadn't been something she set out to do until she was arm deep in it, refinishing the surfaces in the kitchen and repairing furniture.

She could've lied to herself and claimed it was done as a means to thank the Keeper, who had asked nothing in return for his assistance, but she couldn't fool herself, especially not when she worked herself to the bone to distract her from her incredibly vivid dreams.

They had started before she took up residence in the lighthouse; nevertheless, she tried to write her odd dreaming off as the effects of her new surroundings on her imagination.

She dreamed about her parents, Eva and Leopold, who were possibly the only real people in New Brook. Everyone else in her life had become faceless nobodies, their images transmuting abruptly in her memories only to fade away as if they had never been there at all.

She dreamed about growing up alone, without friends or family, constantly moving from place to place with no roots, no stability. In this dream-life, she became a kind of bounty hunter, collecting people for a paycheck.

She dreamed that she lived in another place, full of friends and a few tolerated enemies, but everything there was strange: the attire, the tools, the timing. She battled villains with incredible powers, overcame age-long curses, and bested monsters larger than anything still living.

None of it made any sense to her, yet while she slept, she felt more alive than she did while awake.

In many ways, they were the opposite of dreams, for those disappeared with the morning sun. These expanded upon reflection, like a bowl filling with water from drops of a leaky faucet. On more than one occasion, she had caught herself quilting the dream into her memory, as if it belonged among those priceless moments of her childhood. She had grown up loved and protected by Eva and Leopold Swan, who adopted her and raised her among their four biological sons as if she were their own, yet somehow she wove her misadventures with a childhood friend named Lily into one of her family's weekend trips.

She had never known anyone named Lily, and she had certainly never run away from home and broken into a house for a sleepover.

Just a few weeks ago, back when her life had made sense, she would've shaken it off and assumed it was just a part of getting older, but the Bailiff had said something to her that struck a disturbing cord. He attempted to convince her that he had memories of a past life, or something like that, but she dismissed him. It seemed too impossible.

The Survivor closed her eyes. She was thinking herself in circles, and she needed to get out of her head.

Whether or not the Keeper was avoiding her, he was suffering and had been for a very long time. Though he was yet a stranger to her, she felt compelled to trust him and to help him if she could. They must be old souls.

Old souls. At least, it would fit into the Bailiff's insistence on past lives. That made her smile.

 

The Keeper rowed to Stagrock before dusk, his back and shoulders throbbing with pain and soreness, for his task for the past three days had been both arduous and tedious. The storm had brought in considerable debris, some natural, some dredged up from the sea floor, and some - far more than a small portion, in fact - from the shipwreck that marooned the Survivor on Cellar Island. In the days since, hide tide carried flotsam and jetsam into the rocky spires between Stagrock and the mainland. As the tide when out, much of the debris caught along the rocks, sticking out in contrast to the otherwise natural composition of the seascape. Beyond his duties as the Keeper to protect the sea life and preserve the natural beauty of ocean, he had no desire to leave such harsh reminders of the storm that nearly took the Survivor's life. It was only a matter of time before she declared her loyalties and had occasion to walk outside, where she would surely happen upon the unkindly commemorations.

Thus, he labored with weighted lines, a mariner's crook, and a number of repurposed wooden poles, loosing entrapped waste into the waters of low tide, that it might carry its new prizes onward to the harbor or sink down into the depths of the Great Untamed Ocean, never to see the light of day again.

Earlier that week, he addressed repairs across Cellar Island, for the Dockmaster provided enough materials to rebuild the dock and craft a new mooring. His previous requests had been met with half-measures and orders to patch or to refurbish the existing structure so as to save materials, but after the countless tempest that battered the weary landscape, anything crafted from wood was sure to fail, and soon. Finally the Dockmaster had accepted that.

When he completed the building three days ago, there was something invigorating about seeing it all in place, sturdy and strong against the sea, no matter how stiff he felt rowing home. Unfortunately, on his return to Stagrock that very night, he spotted the collecting debris and knew he had days of drudgery ahead. His assessment was unfortunately correct, and the past three days testified to it, as did his aching muscles. 

So he arrived at the lighthouse exceedingly worn and tired, not expecting to find the Survivor waiting on him in the kitchen.

The conversation, on the other hand, he anticipated, for it was past time they spoke of it. He should've taken more time to explain himself. Instead, he avoided speaking to her for fear that she might talk about the spirits that haunted him. The only way to ensure she wouldn't inquire after such things was to request that she refrain, an act that required _him_ to broach the topic he so diligently evaded. 

It had occurred to him that his absence could be misconstrued as a kind of personal condemnation, for she confessed her trespasses that very same night - crimes for which most would openly denounce her. He could only hope that she was conflicted over discovering his ghastly visitors to the point of where she experienced relief rather than pain over his absence.

Not that he knew her or wished to; in fact, he had lived perfectly fine without her or anyone else for a very long time. He was well-practiced in social evasion, yet whenever he avoided her - a woman he barely knew - he experienced a pang of guilt.

So when he walked into the kitchen at dusk and found her standing with a cup of tea in hand and a kettle at the ready, it should not have been a surprise. He wasn't entirely sure what to expect. Ignoring him outright, as he had done to her for the past week? Politely inquiring after his day? Demanding an explanation for his behavior? He hadn't given it due consideration.

That being said, had he spent the past week ruminating on the myriad ways she begin their colloquy, he never would have guessed the question she asked without greeting or pleasantries.

"Do you ever dreamed of a past life that's felt more real to you than this one?"

 

The Keeper had listened intently to her story, and he drank the last of the draught brewed by the Survivor long before she finished her tale. As soon as she told him about the Hermit's tea, he wondered if she hadn't drafted him that very same brew.

"Faceless people," the Keeper said, remembering her feverish words when he first found her. "You spoke of them while I was tending your wounds."

"The Hermit said that these faceless people weren't real," she explained. "Figments of imagination. You can't see it at the time, but you know... somehow, you know. And the tonics help you remember those figments, so that you don't see people anymore. You see them as they are."

"Faceless," he said, understanding her meaning. "And who did this brew reveal to be mere figments of your imagination?" 

"Everybody," she replied. "Nearly everybody, anyway. All four of my brothers. My friends, most of my coworkers. Only a few were real: the Hermit, my parents, the Bailiff, and the Barkeep."

"And me?" he asked. "Do I have a face in this world of yours?"

"You do."

She couldn't help but smile at him. A faint flush touched his cheeks, and her interest peeked when she saw that the redness extended down his neck to his chest.

"I take it that this tea you've brewed for me was not ginger and mint by mistake," he said. 

"No," she replied. "I know I should've said something before, but - "

"You rightfully suspected that I wouldn't drink such a concoction," he interrupted. "We don't know each other, but let me make things clear for you. I am the Keeper of Stagrock Light. A man of duty and honor. You are the Fugitive, the Survivor hiding under my protection. You are in my charge. You have glimpsed the horrors in my life, but you have no right nor leave to add to that burden."

The anger lurked beneath surface, breaking into his voice suddenly, drafting his ire as he spoke. He hardly meant the things he was saying, but as soon as he said them, he felt the need to commit to them. What was this stranger thinking, adding tonics to his drink without his knowledge? He wasn't sure if he should be more concerned about her believing herbs could affect hope, memory, and courage as she described or of the fact that she plied him with said herbs without his consent.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You are absolutely right, but if I told you, you would've refused, and I couldn't let that happen - "

"Why?" he demanded. "Why is it so important?"

"Because people in your life might be faceless, too," she replied. "Your ghosts might be figments, and if they are, you can banish them with a thought. All you need to do is see them for what they are. This tea was meant to help you do that."

The Keeper, now completely enraged, pounded the counter with his fist. He focused on his breathing to calm himself, so when he spoke next, his voice was tempered and even.

"The Dockmaster will be arriving three days hence to inspect the new mooring and dock on Cellar Island," he said. "I suggest you declare your presence and allegiance, but regardless, he will learn of your situation. Against my duties as Keeper, I have hidden you here, and I will do it no longer."

With that, he turned his back and ascended the stairs, his anger curbing his hunger and common sense alike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aletheia means 'disclosure' or 'truth' in Greek. Philosophically, Aletheia is the opposite of Lethe, which is forgetfulness and concealment.


	13. The Mirador of Helios

The Keeper tossed and turned, his body desperate for sleep, but his mind refused to rest, plaguing him with thoughts he could neither consume nor complete.

It was the third night since he demanded that the Survivor declare her loyalty to Northedge. He had informed her only hours ago that the Dockmaster would be accompanying him on a tour of Stagrock tomorrow afternoon, so there was no need for her to accompany him to Cellar Island on the morn. It was the first time he had spoken to her since the incident with the tea.

He didn't relish the idea of anybody falling prey to a man like the Dockmaster, but harboring her was a senseless risk. As long as she remained unpronounced, she was a fugitive from the Midlands. He would witness her declaration, so the Dockmaster would have no recourse but to follow the law.

Not that he doubted the Dockmaster's deviousness, for he had before threatened the Keeper into silence. Once he said he'd appoint a dozen others to positions at Stagrock so that the Keeper would have no reprieve from the company of the others, but for the most part, his threats were banal promises of beatings and death. These were the bullying reprimands of the Dockmaster when the Keeper had done little more than press for much-needed supplies, yet his temper tantrums had proven one thing: the preservation and care of Stagrock Light was of immense importance. Moreover, there were precious few who were capable of the duties it required, and none wished to abandoned their lives to work in some tired, secluded island devoid of life. This much he had learned from whispers, but he also knew that the Dockmaster went to great lengths to corral him into this position. Had any other person living desired the mantle, the Dockmaster would've selected them instead.

On the other hand, enraging the Dockmaster was a perilous business, for he controlled all the goods that came in and out of the harbor as well as the supplies that came to Stagrock. He might not cease deliveries, but he would have no trouble providing nothing but rice and rotted vegetables and claiming ignorance for his part in it.

Many years ago, the Keeper had begged for a replacement rowboat, as Stagrock's envoy had gone beyond repair after a violent windstorm. The Dockmaster insisted that as long as the Keeper's boat remained afloat, there was no need for another. His reprieve came when a new Second Hand delivering for the Dockmaster saw its state of disrepair. He thought it was shameful to leave the Keeper with such shoddy transport, so he and the First Hand towed it back to the docks, where the Dockmaster had no choice but to replace the beaten and broken thing.

For the next two weeks, the cellar remained thin on supplies, and the only explanation came from notes left by the First and Second Hand, which said that there were limited funds due to the costly boat replacement. On the third week, no delivery came at all, and the same with the week after, with no note to explain the absence. He wondered if the Dockmaster had decided to be rid of their agreement completely. His stores became so light that he had to ration rice and pickles for his meals. He was forced to spend many of his working hours fishing for his own meat. Many of his true duties were lost to the devastation of his hunger, for though he had enough to fill his belly, he feared that no more supplies would ever arrive. He could catch a thousand fish, but that would not replace the rice and vegetables - even when pickled - that he required for sustenance. What if he had to row to the mainland and attend the market for his meals? At the time, the idea filled him with dread, and he wondered if slowly starving was a better option.

On the fifth week, however, a new First and Second Hand came with the weekly comestibles, along with a written message that explained the previous deliveries had ceased when the delivery boat sank on their trip to Cellar Island. Both Hands had been lost at sea. The Dockmaster hadn't been aware of the situation until they failed to collect their wages. 

The first sailor to show both courage and decency towards him - a man he had never met, a man whose born name he did not know - had died, all but certainly because of the Dockmaster's ire. If the Keeper knew the man, then, as punishment for their bravery, he had forced the First and Second Hand to take the old, rickety rowboat from the lighthouse, which failed them after less than a week's use.

If that was how the man acted over a disagreement about a rowboat, how would he react to a new exile who he didn't wish to accept without some personal benefit?

He growled, pushing the thoughts aside as he got out of bed. There was no reason to suspect that the Dockmaster would have any qualms with the Survivor. No doubt he would be pleased about having another person under his thumb. Why fret over a problem that didn't yet exist?

 _Because you know it does, you old fool_ , he thought to himself as he climbed to the roof.

It had been rash to force the Survivor to announce on a deadline. Her reasons for delay were likely emotional; severing all ties to her past life with no recourse for repair was a devastating choice.

He certainly empathized with that.

But his guilt was tempered by his frustration. For the past three nights, he had nightmares about faceless people all around him. Faceless sailors fighting side-by-side with him. Faceless pirates attacking. Faceless citizens of Northedge avoiding the Recluse at all costs. He woke up with memories of his brother, standing beside him in uniform, his features hollow and indistinct as they came up the ranks together. He feared his own brother might be some imaginary figment, yet he was unlike the other empty people from his life.

No, his brother was real. It was only the memory of his face that had faded.

Bloody hell. Didn't he tell her he had enough nightmares of his own?

The Keeper gulped down the refreshing night air as he climbed onto the roof, temporarily forgetting his troubles as he looked out at the ocean around him.

He couldn't explain it, for the beacon below him shined so bright that it blotted out all other light, save for the stars above. But some nights, especially those before and after the full moon, there was this beautiful shine across the water that put even Stagrock's light to shame.

And this night, the darkness obscured everything, save for the waning moon, which shone brightly against the stars. The sea shifted like a many-tentacled sea beast dancing with the calm winds. The Keeper could remain on the roof for hours, doing nothing more than stare at the water, and he continued to do just that long after he had forgotten the woes that drove him to this place.

_'Killian Jones.'_

The words went straight to his heart, for the voice was known to him. But it couldn't be. 

The Keeper turned to the speaker, expecting to find himself alone; instead, a phantom hovered before him, his deep, empty eyes masking his identity. The more the Keeper stared at the Ghost, the clearer his face became.

He must be dreaming.

Yet... was this not exactly what the Survivor told him would happen?

The tonic had removed the faces of people he knew, in his heart, were fake. Even his own brother had not survived the purge of falsehoods. Yet now that strange brew restored a face he had forgotten, a face he longed to see again.

_'Killian Jones.'_

The specter was far clearer now, standing before him as bold as brass. He wore a Captain's uniform, even though the last rank the Keeper had seen him wear was that of Lieutenant. With every beat of his heart, the spirit became a little more whole. He could scarcely believe it. He held his breath, worried that he might break whatever spell was unfolding before him.

"Killian Jones," the Ghost spoke, his voice, almost human.

The black spots that once obscured the spirit's eyes disappeared, revealing the face of the one man he had missed more than any other. Though he was clearly still a phantom of himself, a ghost for want of a better word, it was plain who the man was, and he was very, very real.

"Is that you, brother?" he rasped.

In the next instant, he had the man clasped in a strong embrace, the translucent figure now solid, tangible.

"I'm so sorry, brother," the Keeper whispered. "I am so sorry."

 

After a time, his mind settled, and he allowed himself to accept that what was before. The Ghost of his brother, Liam Jones, had come to haunt him, though he seemed neither angry nor vengeful.

"You know who I am?" the Ghost asked.

"Liam, of course I do."

"You say that as if you haven't averted your eyes and begged me to leave all these years."

"I'm so sorry, brother, I - "

"Nonsense," the Ghost interrupted. "It is I who should apologize to you, Killian. It was my own mistake that made me this specter of myself, not yours. I was warned not to come here, but I selfishly ignored the warning."

"I don't care," the Keeper replied. "I'm only happy to see you again. Why did you come here against all warning? Is there something you need?"

"Aye, but it is not important - "

"It is," the Keeper interrupted this time. "My brother seeks me from beyond the grave only to claim that his request is unimportant? Anything you require, you need only ask."

"That is precisely why I cannot ask. Not yet. Once I do, I will no longer be able to help you."

"Help me?" the Keeper repeated. "You are the only reason I'm alive. You have helped me all your life. Surely, it's high time for me to return the favor."

The Ghost gave him a sad smile, the same one he always wore when he knew there was no convincing his brother. He nodded his head, yes. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace as he spoke.

"Do you remember your lessons, brother?" the Ghost inquired. "The stars that guide us."

"Aye, all of them, every star," the Keeper replied. "You taught me their names, and I've not forgotten one."

"I did, but not in this life," the Ghost continued. "Tell me, where did I impart your first lesson about the North Star?"

"In a field," the Keeper recounted. "We had been at the docks. We hadn't had anything to eat all day, so we tried to steal some of the Baker's wares from his cart. Only he caught us and chased us off, and we kept running until we reached the hills. We had nowhere to go, so you took me out into the fields where the grass was tall. I remember you had this long coat - I wondered who you stole it from but didn't ask - that you spread out on the ground for us. I was miserable and hungry and couldn't sleep, so you pointed up to the sky and told me of the North Star. You kept speaking until I fell asleep."

"A touching tale," the Ghost said. "But a tale nonetheless. Think harder, Killian. Where did I first teach you of the North Star?"

The Keeper scoffed at his brother's reprisal. He recalled that night perfectly. It was one of the childhood memories that he always came back to, for it was when he first knew that he and his brother could survive anything together. He remembered how the scent of the long grass only fueled the pangs of hunger that kept him awake, yet his brother's voice soothed him. Liam had spent most of the story looking up at the stars and pointing, but he occasionally glanced over at Killian to see if he was still awake. 

"Think very, very hard, Killian," the Ghost insisted.

He closed his eyes and pictured that night, his elder brother telling him stories of the stars, looking back at him with a smile on his - 

His eyes snapped opened, for when the younger version of Liam looked back at him from the stars, his face wasn't there.

"No," the Keeper muttered to himself. "I had a brother. I know I did. I know it in my heart."

"You need not know it," the Ghost replied. "I am standing here as living - well, nearly living - proof. I am your brother, but that night you described? It never happened."

"I don't understand. The Survivor said the tonic revealed falsehoods, figments, puppets," the Keeper said. "How can you be both truth and fiction?"

"It's this place, Killian," the Ghost replied. "Even now, you flinch upon hearing your name. Why is that?"

"Only spouses, siblings, and parents ever speak born names," the Keeper replied. "I've had no living kin for a very, very long time. I've scarcely heard you - or the false you - speak it."

"Because in this world, everyone is known by titles," the Ghost pointed out. "Even now, you don't think of yourself as Killian Jones, but the Keeper. Before that, the Recluse. The Sailor."

"Aye, it is the way of things."

"Why?" the Ghost asked.

"What kind of question is that?" the Keeper countered. "You may as well ask, why is the sky above and the sea below? There are things of this life that simply are because they are, and all the thinking in the world will neither change them nor make sense of them."

"It is respectful to remark upon a man's position," the Ghost said. "Perhaps not when he bears the title of Recluse or Drunken Fool, but in most cases, calling a man Captain or Keeper is a sign of respect."

"Aye, you taught me that."

"I did not," the Ghost replied. "If it was merely out of respect, Killian, then why do you think of yourself as your title?"

"Becoming the Keeper of Stagrock Light was an honor beyond reproach," the Keeper replied as if it were explanation. He added, "Especially for a sailor abandoned by his country, unable to bury his own brother, his last living kin. To be known by my born name in this land is to be no one, invisible, alone, nothing. But as the Keeper, I am a man known and respected."

"On that, I have no doubt," the Ghost said. "But think, dear brother, please, think. How often do you think of yourself as a man, apart from his position? A person worthy of respect simply for living and being alive? How often do you consider yourself a son, a brother, a friend, a lover?"

"Never," the Keeper replied. "Our parents died so long ago, I've forgotten what it means to be a son. And while I had the privilege to be your brother, you have been gone for a long time. I've never had a lover in all my years, save for a few wenches back when you yet lived, and those were all but one night. As for friends... I've had none. None that I can recall. Those I've served with. Those I fought with. Those I've lost."

"And what of the woman who was here during the full moon?" the Ghost asked. "The one who spoke to me and the two other phantoms. Is she not still here, under this roof, Killian?"

"Aye, what of her?"

"Who is she to you?"

"A stranger," he replied. "She survived a storm. My duties as Keeper required me to treat her wounds. She requested refuge."

"Is it not the duty of the Keeper to report all fugitives to the authorities at port?" the Ghost asked. 

"Aye."

"Yet you've concealed this stranger," the Ghost said pointedly. "Not only in contradiction to your position, but refusing the very duties you swore to maintain." 

"Neither," the Keeper replied harshly. "I've neither lied nor withheld information. My duties will be fulfilled on the morrow."

"You haven't withheld information?" the Ghost asked skeptically. "Did you not spend hours - days - cleaning the cellar so that none would know she had been there? Did you not promise her that you would hold your tongue for a time so long as she remained hidden inside the lighthouse?"

The Keeper looked away from his brother, ashamed at his own failure. It had been his duty to report the Survivor, yet he floundered to do it and excused himself for it. Whatever transpired, he had a responsibility to his position. Knowing that tomorrow would be the end of his secret was a relief.

"I do not ask you this as insult or condemnation, brother," the Ghost continued. "I only ask because if you did any of those things, it was not as the Keeper of Stagrock Light. It was as Killian Jones."

"Killian Jones is no one."

"Far from it," the Ghost snapped. "You protected her out of compassion and good form. Those who live by titles alone have no true understanding of either. There is only duty, and there is little honor from duty alone. Here, it is right to turn a blind eye to the dishonor that comes from someone following the letter of the law while missing the spirit of it. Living by a title, rather than name, ensures this as a way of life."

"You came from beyond the grave to tell me that, though I had a brother, you were never in this life," the Keeper summarized skeptically. "And that I should think of myself as no one rather than my title."

"You are more than your title, Killian Brennan Jones!" the Ghost retorted loudly.

He didn't want to think about anything his brother was saying. It was nonsense and madness. He wanted to tell the Ghost to leave and not return, but the words caught in his throat. 

"Where did I teach you about the North Star, Killian?" the Ghost asked.

The Keeper's mind churned furiously as he wound back through his days. Every memory he conjured had a faceless version of Liam and so discarded. He closed his eyes, desperate to find some memory - a true memory - with his brother, for he must possess at least one. The story of the North Star was a past shared between them. That moment, whenever and wherever it happened, was important in this life, and the last, and whatever came before that.

The scent of the salty sea came on the wind, and he was taken back to a very, very long time ago. He was just a lad wearing an old-fashioned nightgown aboard a ship. But that wasn't right. He hadn't been aboard a vessel so young. He pushed the doubt from his mind and waited. His younger self looked up at the sky, fighting tears, when a youthful Liam joined him. He promised his brother many things, explaining that they didn't need their father. They would work off their father's last debt and make true sailors of themselves in the process, and they would begin now by learning about the stars of the night sky, starting with the North Star.

The memory wasn't as clear as his others, but his brother had a face, a true face. More than that, he felt the sorrow that had brought him above deck. He was the Captain's newest indentured servant, and his father's abandonment was a fresh wound on his heart. He felt lost and alone, and his brother's tale about the North Star comforted him. They would survive this together, he and Liam.

The Keeper's eyes snapped open, shocked yet certain that he had uncovered some deeply buried truth hidden from him for far too long.

"Aboard _The Fair Fury_ ," the Keeper replied. "After our father abandoned us and stole a lifeboat to escape the law. Her Captain informed us that we would serve until we repaid his debt. I refused to believe him. I was nearly whipped for calling the Captain a liar."

"Aye," the Ghost said. "I begged the Captain to give me your reprisal. Told him that you were just a boy who couldn't accept that his father wasn't a good man. Those under his command said that was the only time they had seen that man stay his hand."

"I don't understand," the Keeper said. "Why couldn't I remember anything other than that night out in the field until this very moment?"

"This land is not like any other," the Ghost replied. "This is a place of punishment."

"A curse?" the Keeper asked, the question from something ancient inside him waking.

"Aye, something very like a curse," the Ghost replied. "Do you remember the story of Dioscuri?"

The Keeper found the change in topic off-putting, but not entirely odd, as it was another story Liam imparted when he was a boy.

"The twins of Leda," the Keeper replied. "Castor and Polydeuces. One was the son of a mortal man, the other a child of Zeus."

"One was doomed to die and go to the land of the dead, as all mortal men do," the Ghost continued the story, as sure reading from a tome. "The other was destined to reside atop Mount Olympus with his father, an immortal deity beyond the reach of death."

"Brothers destined to be driven apart by the thread of fate," the Keeper said, for he, too, knew the story by heart. "But when Castor went the way of all men, Polydeuces begged Zeus to reweave the strands of fate, that he might bequeath half his immortality onto his fallen brother so that they could remain together rather than forever apart, one in the realm of Olympus and the other, the realm of Hades."

"And Zeus granted him his behest," the Ghost continued. "To this day, they remain above us in the stars as the constellation Gemini."

"You speak this tale as if it were important," the Keeper said.

"What I didn't recount in that story - for I didn't know it myself - was Polydeuces's choice," the Ghost explained. "He did not know if immortality could be shared. He affirmed that, if he could not share his immortality with Castor, then he wished to cast it away entirely, that he may join his brother in the realm of Hades. Zeus knew his son would never stop mourning the loss of his mortal brother, so he allowed him to share his immortality. Yet for all things, there is a price, even for the gods. One day, Castor and Polydeuces would be in the realm of Hades, the next, Mount Olympus. Polydeuces never despaired the payment of his request, for wherever they were, they remained together." 

The Ghost cast a wary eye to the sky, which was becoming brighter by the second. Dawn approached.

"We don't have much time," the Ghost said.

"Surely you will come again tomorrow night."

"I fear not, brother," he replied. "Once the dawn light takes me, I won't be able to return to you."

"What? Why not?" the Keeper demanded. "You've come to me all these years, but now I know who you are, you can't return? What cruelty is that?"

"Not cruelty," the Ghost replied. "Folly, and mine alone. I became stuck because I had repayments, mistakes to account for. That was originally why I came to you, Killian, because I selfishly thought... In our previous life, I died because I didn't listen to you. I was stubborn and sure of myself, and there was a very long time that you lived, punishing yourself for my folly. I came here to remedy that. I thought helping you would release me from my chains, from my unfinished business, and allow me to move on as I should've done long ago. Instead, I and the others were caught up in the curse and punishment of this place and became the vestiges you've seen these many years, desperately trying to reach out to you. But our attentions only brought madness and misery to you, and now that I have spoken with you, finally, it turns out I was right all along. You were my unfinished business, brother. Curious, isn't it? I spent so many years desperate to free myself that I became resigned to the chains I bore. And now that I am free of them, all I wish to do is cling to those chains because they link me to you."

"No," the Keeper said.

Whatever terror or horror was to come, he would not have his brother bound to him and suffering for it, not for anything. Whatever Liam had done wrong, the Keeper forgave without a thought.

"Go, Liam," the Keeper said. "Go with my blessing."

"But there is so much more to tell you, what is coming - "

"And because of you, I am prepared," he replied, interrupting. "But you need not endure a moment longer on my account. Please, free yourself. You have my word, I will face whatever comes. I will not give up."

The Ghost - no, Liam - gave him a sure smile that warmed his entire face. He put his hand on his brother's shoulder, but his hand scarcely produced a touch. He was already fading with the faint rays of the sun.

"That woman is more than just the Survivor," Liam said. "More to you, more to the realm, more to every realm that has ever existed. And she is in your charge, Killian Jones. Do not forget that."

"Aye, Liam," he replied, the tears burning hot in his throat. "I will never forget."

The dawn came as if racing to rise, and once the dim blue rays were replaced with the first fiery red blossoms of the morn, the Ghost of Liam Jones vanished, leaving nothing more than a whisper on the wind.

"All my blessings, Killian."

The Keeper collapsed to his knees, the fresh grief of losing his brother amplified by the memories from this and his previous life.

Were they, as Castor and Polydeuces, destined for naught but separation? Was that why his brother told him that story?

Somehow, it was too much and not enough at the same time, and the Keeper lost himself under the rays of the dawn as the last of the stars vanished from the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helios was a Titan in Greek mythology and considered the personification of the sun. With his great steeds Aeos, Aethon, Phlegon, and Pyrois, he drove the chariot of the sun across the sky, plunging into the unknown world below, journeying east, where he would again appear on the horizon.


	14. Polydeuces's Choice

The Survivor had very little in the way of hope or faith these days. It was a strange thing, for not two months previous, she had an abundance of both. She had faith that, if she did her best, justice would be served and those she loved would remain safe. She had hope that the future would be better than the past.

But that was before her memories were filled with faceless people, many of whom had been near to her heart. In some cruel twist of fate, the one man whose face she wished never existed persisted exactly as it was, appearing in her dreams as the kind Barkeep who listened to the Sheriff's problems until, one day, he screwed up his courage and asked her on a date. The dreams all ended the same way: the Barkeep losing his mind, attacking, and dying.

No, she murdered the Barkeep, Walsh Ozman. 'Dying' made it sound natural, normal.

The Keeper had told her that today she would face the Dockmaster, and while she wanted to believe that she could trust someone with something as simple as doing the right thing, she couldn't dismiss her nagging, lingering doubts.

She and the Bailiff - no, she and Graham - crossed the Great Untamed Ocean for a reason. After Walsh's body was discovered, all of New Brook became so enraged that her parents and brothers had to pull up stakes, despite having neither a hand in nor connection to the Barkeep's death. For all she knew, they were still living elsewhere, their decades of dedication to good cast into doubt by the evils of their adopted daughter.

Many who were closest to her - in her dreams, the faceless friends that haunted her - rallied together and put a bounty on the head of the Fugitive. They wanted her alive, but beyond that, they didn't care if she was dragged back from Northedge against every written law. 

A bounty meant payment, and payment meant corruption. She couldn't trust the Dockmaster. Her only hope resided in the Keeper, for he had promised to bear witness to her words, lest the Dockmaster attempt to deny them. 

Perhaps the fear from that doubt was what kept her in her room until late morning, allowing her to avoid sharing breakfast with the Keep. Had he required her presence, he would've called on her, and he had not.

She went downstairs and forced herself to eat something. Then she dressed in the best clothing she could find, for though she doubted her deportment would affect the day's course of events, it was something she could do. And she badly needed some semblance of control and action, even if only a veneer.

The Survivor didn't know if she wanted the Keeper to return with the Dockmaster later or for it to fall upon her swiftly that it may finally be over. On one hand, she was far from ready to make her pronouncement. On the other, saying the words would free her of a few of her burdens, and a lightened load could relieve her many anxieties. 

It was after midday when she heard the approach of rowboats. It startled her, for the Keeper wont was to row so smoothly through the water that the sound of his oars was masked by the waves and wind. She peered out a north-facing window to see two approaching vessels: one rowed by the lithe and sure-moving Keeper, the other by a scrawny man with knobby knees. Unlike the Keeper, however, knobby-knees was not alone. His traveling companion was taller than him with a scruffy beard that matched his hair. His great, rotund belly strained the unflattering shirt he wore.

The Survivor couldn't abide another second of stalling, so she marched down the stairs, determined to meet the Dockmaster outside rather than wait one more second for his arrival.

She had no way to know that both boats were moored and disembarked before she made it to the basement until the Keeper opened the door just as she descended the last few steps.

The Dockmaster left the Rower in the boat to follow the Keeper, who he found intolerable. That was why giving him the position of Keeper had been perfect, for the Dockmaster need not be annoyed by his presence. After the requisite inspection of Cellar Island's new dock, the Keeper had requested his assistance at the lighthouse in such an odd manner that he roused the Dockmaster's curiosity, for he had no idea why the Keeper would invite company of any kind, let alone himself. Though he was aggravated by the prospect, he agreed for the novelty of it, even though he knew nothing of the treasure hidden at Stagrock. So when the Dockmaster saw the Keeper speaking to someone he couldn't yet see, he had no reason to think that a prized quarry awaited him.

He removed his cap as he stepped inside; it was a custom his grandmother had impressed upon him in his youth and had yet to fade with time. The dimness inside obscured his vision for a few moments.

"Dockmaster, may I introduce the Survivor," the Keeper said. "As named because she survived the last storm and since has been recuperating under my care."

The Dockmaster ignored him as soon as his eyes fell upon a woman with golden hair, fair skin, and jade-green eyes. He doubted there was another like her in all the world, let alone in Northedge. Her appealing face almost matched the pretty price on her head. 

"Fugitive!" the Dockmaster snarled.

In a flash, he grabbed the wench, and, thinking quickly, he shoved his knitted cap in her mouth to prevent her from speaking before wrapping his arm around her and covering her lips with one hand. With the other, he searched his pockets for ropes to bind her. Excitement welled up inside him as he imagined turning her over for the promised fortune. The People of New Brook would get their murderer, and he would be a very wealthy man.

His sudden spryness surprised both the Survivor and the Keeper. The Survivor didn't respond until after he gagged her, which cut off her air and diminished her strength so that her struggles proved fruitless against his formidable arms. The Keeper stepped back, caught off-guard by the abrupt aggression.

The Dockmaster despised the Keeper even more deeply, for by his own word, she had been here since the last storm, which was over a week ago. Of course he would be foolish enough to think that a fugitive deserved rest and treatment, and he certainly wouldn't have considered the price on her head. All the better, for it meant that the Dockmaster had full claim to the bounty.

"What are you doing?" the Keeper demanded. "I brought you here for introductions."

"A woman who cannot speak nor write cannot make the pronouncement," the Dockmaster said wryly. "I will handle this."

"Aye, and collect a full bounty," the Keeper said shrewdly.

The Dockmaster stopped attempting to bind her, though he held fast to the girl, who was still struggling. He hadn't thought the Keeper capable of independent thought, let alone demanding a bribe.

"You can have a ten percent finders fee," the Dockmaster said.

The Survivor stomped at her captor's feet and tried to elbow him, but he wrapped an arm around her neck and tightened, forcing the breath from her body. The look on his face was horrifying: a combination of pleasure and wrath, daring her to attempt escape, that he might have cause to inflict further punishment upon her.

The Keeper couldn't believe his eyes. He knew the Dockmaster to be a man of shallow character and low cunning, but he never had occasion to witness the violence of which he was capable. He wanted nothing more than to unleash the pent up fury of his life upon this one putrid man, but he saw the Survivor's face. She was fighting for her life, even after her captor released his choke so she could breath. Her eyes were wide in terror, but they were also pleading, begging for his aid, his promise. 

_Polydeuces's choice came at a price_ , he thought to himself, the words from his conversation with Liam rising to the surface.

_And the price was worth it._

"I will not allow you to do this!" the Keeper announced loudly.

"There's nothing to allow," the Dockmaster snapped. "You'll take ten percent or nothing."

"Ten percent of nothing is still nothing," the Keeper said levelly. "And the Survivor has already pronounced her allegiance to Northedge. To me."

"The word of a embittered Recluse against the Dockmaster of the Northmost Harbor?" the man taunted. "Who shall anyone believe? If I have to, I will strip you of your title and drown you in the sea!"

With that, the Keeper yanked the front door open and yelled so loudly that his voice carried. The knobby-kneed Rower could not help but hear every word.

"I, the Keeper of Stagrock Light, Sole Beacon of the Northmost Lands, name the Refugee, formerly the Survivor, formerly the Fugitive, as Second Keeper in the service of Stagrock Light!"

Furious, the Dockmaster threw the Survivor across the basement, where she crashed into the wall and fell to the floor, her hands partially bound and gag firmly in place. Abandoning her, he shoved the Keeper outside, his huge form bearing down on him. He had no qualms casting the Keeper into the sea and holding him down until he drowned.

"You have no right to claim her in the service of Stagrock!" the Dockmaster shouted.

"I am the Keeper!" the Keeper retorted. "Should I chose, I could name that Rower of yours into service as well, and you would have to blister your hands returning home!"

"You should know your place!"

The Dockmaster grabbed the Keeper by the throat, lifting him off his feet before he could react, breaking his breath. The Rower, unsure of how to act, cowered in his boat, pretending he could not see what unfolded before him.

Crack!

The Dockmaster's grip failed him as he was thrown forward, his knees buckling beneath him. Behind him, the Survivor stood, holding an oar like a sword.

"You bitch!" the Dockmaster snarled. "You will pay for that!"

He tried to get to his feet, but the Survivor swung the oar again, this time landing a blow to his stomach. He doubled over from the force of it. Then she hit him across the face, the light _thwap_ stunning him before he collapsed.

The Keeper bound the Dockmaster's hands and feet while he struggled to recover from the beating. His eyes flickered open, and his ire rose to his cheeks. 

He growled, "I gave you everything, you ungrateful - "

The Survivor interrupted by shoving his knitted cap into his mouth. 

The Keeper said, "Perhaps it's time you learned your place, Dockmaster. You cannot strip me of my title unless I relinquish it, and I do not! You cannot kidnap a citizen of Northedge without pain of death, and you cannot threaten the life of a man or woman in service to the Sole Beacon of the Northmost Lands without consequence."

He brought his fist across the man's face again and again until he stopped moving. Even though his arm hurt a great deal and his fingers were bloody, the Keeper showed no weakness. 

He took out a scrap of paper from his pocket and wrote a note in his tidiest handwriting, which was quite a painful feat, as his hand was worse for the ware. Casting a sharp look to the Rower, he folded it neatly and handed it over in a manner bordering on reverence.

"As soon as you moor this boat, you are to run - not walk, but run - to the Lawmaster of the Docks," the Keeper said. "This note explains why the Dockmaster has been returned trussed and beaten, so if he is found otherwise, it will appear as if you freed a lawbreaker without authority. Do not wake him. Do not untie him. What will you do when you moor the boat?"

"Run to the Lawmaster of the Docks," the man replied. "And deliver this note."

"Indeed. Whatever questions the Lawmaster puts to you, answer honestly," the Keeper continued. "As of this moment, you have done no wrong. Be sure to keep it that way."

The Rower nodded his head, and the Keeper fumbled with the mooring. The Survivor came to his aid, untying the knot and releasing the boat.

"How discourteous of me. My I introduce the Second Keeper of Stagrock Light," the Keeper said. "Freshly pronounced."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," the Rower said politely.

"And you," she replied, her voice hoarse.

The Rower pushed away from the dock and began to move steadily and quietly north, back to the mainland.

"What will happen to him?" she asked, her words harsh from the rawness of her throat.

"Nothing he doesn't deserve," the Keeper replied. "I apologize, I should've asked before I named you Second Keeper, but it was the only - "

"Thank you," she interrupted. "You saved me."

"Only after endangering you," he replied.

"You're bleeding."

"You're voice is raw."

She nodded and exhaled loudly. It was quite nearly a laugh, though the only hint was the smile on her face.

"It appears we're both quite a mess," the Keeper continued. "Perhaps we should render today's services complete, secure the boat, and rest. I've little doubt that the Lawmaster will want to speak to us and soon."

She nodded and said, "You go up."

"I can hardly leave you to handle the boat on your own," he protested. "It's your first hour as Second Keeper. Surely that kind of work should be left till your second day."

"Your knuckles," she hissed. "The salt water."

He appreciated the sentiment, but there was no way he would go upstairs while someone who was nearly choked to death dealt with the rowboat. He learned long ago how to handle the burn of salt water on an open wound.

"Save your voice," he said. "Tell you what. I'll hoist with the rope, you lift. Once she's ashore, you can carry her inside. I'll take the oars."

She smiled at him, and his heart thumped in his chest. He had seen her beauty before, yet somehow remained unaware of how utterly enchanting she was. He nodded his head and led the way.

As they worked together, he was secretly glad that he named her Second Keeper in an unexpected moment of life-or-death crisis, for had it been under any other circumstance, he would wonder if he hadn't named her in the service of Stagrock Light that he might have a reason to keep her close, not for her benefit but for his own selfish desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polydeuces was the twin brother of Castor, who together were known as the Dioskouroi. They were born to Leda, but while Castor was the mortal son of Tyndareus, King of Sparta, Polydeuces was the immortal son of Zeus. When Castor died, Polydeuces begged his father to keep them together, so they were transformed into the constellation Gemini.


	15. To Invoke Hestia with Sweet Wine

The Lawmaster arrived the next day with over half a dozen Attendants. They rowed in midmorning and gathered in the basement of Stagrock Light before ascending the stairs in a perfect, in-step line. Neither the Survivor nor the Keeper commented on their stature, for each man that marched up the stairs was undoubtedly a dwarf, a race known for their incredible work ethic and surly temperament.

The last person to climb the stairs was the Lawmaster herself, and she stood in complete contrast to her Attendant counterparts. She was of average height with black hair and radiant skin. Her eyes seemed black at first glance, but they were actually a deep, dark brown that radiated electricity. Her features were fine and refined, bearing all the indicators of a woman born and bred a lady, which matched her comportment of a high-born noble, yet every other facet of her being contradicted the suggestion of an easy life, including the sheer size of her musculature and the callouses on her hands. 

Though neither spoke of it, both the Survivor and the Keeper recognized the Lawmaster, though neither could say that they met her before. 

"It seems we have quite a lot to talk about," the Lawmaster said by way of introduction. "So, shall we begin?"

 

The entire affair took less than a day. The Lawmaster was fair, well-spoken, and prudent. According to her, many complaints had been levied against the Dockmaster, but none had been courageous enough to submit a formal accusation on the matter, let alone defend those he exploited.

Unfortunately, the Dockmaster escaped the punishment of execution. Not only had his plan failed, but he was also returned to the docks bound and gagged. The Rower had provided a full account - or, at least as much as he knew - and thus afforded the Dockmaster a short reprieve from the justice due to him. The Rower hadn't witnessed the gagging of the Survivor nor the attempt to bride the Keeper; thus, the only witness with no reason to lie could only confirm the pronouncement and the physical altercation that transpired afterward.

It was more than enough to strip the Dockmaster of his title and position and banish him deep inland. The Lawmaster thought it a fitting punishment, since the man prided himself on acquiring rare and hard to find objects, for which he required access that only the harbor provided. Thus, the man born as William Smee was banished from the Northmost Harbor, never to set sight upon the Great Untamed Ocean again.

The Keeper and the Survivor spent the entire day answering various inquiries about the nature of the dispute between themselves and the Dockmaster. It was a tedious affair, no doubt tantamount to torture in some corners of the realm, yet it passed without lasting incident. The Lawmaker congratulated the Survivor on her new position, Second Keeper, though for the duration of the encounter, she referred to her as the Refugee or, following the Keeper's example, the Survivor.

The Lawmaster assured the Keeper that the agreement made with the Dockmaster would continue with additional rations and compensation for the Second Keeper. 

At dusk, all seven Attendants packed up and stalked down the stairs in a perfect marching line, followed by their raven-haired Lawmaster.

Thereafter, for a short time, Stagrock Light became quiet and uneventful, save for the occasional tempest.

* * *

In fact, it was three months later that anything remotely remarkable occurred. During those months, the Survivor took on her new position without hesitation, learning everything there was to know about the ocean and guiding those who traversed it. She had learned much about sailing in her youth, before the shipwreck of _The Yellow Bug_ made her collapse at the sight of the sea, but she knew little of long-distance seafaring and lighthouses. 

The Keeper happily indulged her every question with needlessly long-winded explanations. He augmented her already thorough knowledge of ropes and knots and walked her through the essentials of stormproofing.

But she was not the only one who had things to learn. Though the Keeper had long served as a sailor, he knew nearly nothing when it came to construction, structure, and support. His building capabilities were limited to that which he had learned from assisting dock and ship carpenters. He knew enough to keep the lighthouse in running order and to fashion a new mooring or even a dock when required, but his skills fell short when it came to true restoration and creation. 

Though the Survivor had never been a professional craftsman or carpenter, it had been a passionate hobby of hers. She had been raised with a love of building, and each year, she had some project that indulged that particular joy. Long ago, she had decided that her entire career would unfold in law enforcement, to the point of where she never considered the possibility of taking on a job that didn't require legal action or chasing down criminals. It wasn't until she embraced her newest mantle as the Second Keeper that she realized that the work that truly invigorated her wasn't catching criminals nor the execution of justice, it was problem solving. Whether it was figuring out how a thief bypassed security or how to fit additional storage into tiny living quarters, it enthralled her.

So when they agreed that turning some of the empty, windowless rooms into storage closets was the best way to handle the additional stock now arriving at Cellar Island, it was the Survivor who designed the shelves out of recovered or spared materials, and it was she who built them and tested their physical capacity. When they concluded that many of the latches were not sufficiently strong enough to withstand the fury of yet another storm, it was the Survivor who refurbished, recrafted, and refactored each one before the next storm fell. It was also she who built a raft so that they had a second vessel for transport, albeit one that only faired well with a light load in calm seas. It was a temporary thing, only necessary until she acquired the requisite materials to craft a second rowboat. 

While she adjusted to the work and hours, the Keeper attenuated his schedule, for he had spent so long alone that he had forgotten how to live with people, how to enjoy their company, how to make room for them each day without feeling awkward or the encounter, forced.

So she taught him. When he worked through lunch, she sought him out, whether he was managing the stores on Cellar Island or clearing debris from the stones at low tide, with a serving of last night's dinner in hand. She ensured not only that he ate properly but also ceased his labors long enough to sit and eat, for it would be deeply discourteous for him not to sit and talk with her over the meal that she had so kindly brought for him. Sometimes he wanted a full retreat, to go back to the time when his days were uninterrupted, for some traces of the Recluse clung bitterly to the better parts of himself. He fought the urge to escape as well as the desire to lash out and chase her away, and those lingering impulses slowly dissipated, evaporating under the radiant presence of her smile.

Before vanishing, his brother had said that the Survivor was important and that she was his charge, under his care and protection. After his confrontation with the Dockmaster, he began experiencing a connection - a history - between them, but it wasn't like the trickle of memories from his past life. He didn't recall any specific event between them, nor could he think of any conversations they shared. He had no name for the experience, but it was a deep, abiding link to her, one that went beyond kinship and camaraderie, and his life was better for it.

The Survivor enjoyed their conversations, for they discussed nearly everything, from horses to ships and from types of swords to all the stars that shined in the night sky. The Keeper had both the intelligence and the rhetoric to transform the most inane conversations into debates of discovery and interest, his wit and good humor coloring even the stories she knew by heart, casting them in a new light.

There were times when the long years of solitude returned in full force, and the Keeper withdrew. At first, she hesitated to follow after him, concerned that her persistent engagement would act as a pressure and point of contention, pushing him away, but then she began to witness these moments of struggle - often little more than a clenched jaw or a deep, deep breath - when he'd battle that part of his nature, all so he could speak to her a little longer or impart an encouraging word.

A man willing to fight deserved to obtain something for his trouble, and if she could lighten the load, however slightly, she would. Thus, she sought him whenever he failed to return for lunch or hadn't retired by the agreed upon hour. At dinner, she asked after stories, especially seafaring lore and the old myths, for when he told a tale, he opened a part of himself, whether the characters were he and his brother or the ancient deities of faraway lands. It may have begun as a way to help him, but she could hardly say that her efforts in the matter were strenuous or unpleasant. With each passing day, his company became more and more appealing to her, and she found herself unhappy only with the fact that they only ever made time together over meals.

A month after she had become the Second Keeper, she invited him to share a drink by the fire before retiring for the night. They brewed mint tea and added a splash of whiskey to each cup before sitting down together.

The entire affair was far more intimate than she had planned, for she only asked him to join her that they may have a few more minutes together. Despite being settled into a comfortable seat with a good drink in her hand, her heart beat madly in her chest and not from exertion or fear. Her skin flushed as heat went to her neck and face, and her blushing embarrassed her, which only inspired her skin to burn hotter with her unspoken emotion. Her reaction was entirely unwarranted, for they had enjoyed meals and drinks together in close quarters with no such response.

In fact, each morning when they descended for breakfast, tousle-haired and adorned in little more than light sleeping linens, no precaution was taken against the disarray of slumber's inertia. Neither was there concern for modesty, as the occasional show of skin due to some tucked or pulled fabric never caused even a hit of redness, let alone the fierce mortification she experience now.

He, too, could not hide the nervousness, which churned beneath the surface like a sun-hungry sea serpent. His cheeks only showed a faint pink, but he sat rigid with tension. Like her, he considered the many times they had been in such close proximity - or yet even closer - with no discomfort.

Indeed, they had become quiet comfortable with one another, but only when conditions were right. They dined together and spoke over meals, but there was always a ticking clock, schedules to keep, not to mention food to cut, taste, and chew. They had unwittingly provided distractions adequate enough to alleviate the pressure to speak, thus facilitating many casual conversations easily.

It wasn't until this moment, when the two of them sat together with nothing but a kettle and a bottle of whiskey between them that they truly felt one another's presence. The firelight cast his features in sharp relief, and the new image of him burned into her mind, a permanent image to be conjured at her whim. Likewise, when he dared look at her for more than a few moments, her fair skin and golden hair beguiled him, and his faculties failed him, making all thoughts, all words, impossible entities.

Several minutes - or possibly eons, as viewed by both parties - passed in silence interrupted by nothing but sure and sharp sips.

"Forgive me if this is too bold a suggestion," the Keeper said. "But given the unease and tension between us, perhaps it's best if we never do this again."

"If we do, we'll need more whiskey," the Survivor replied.

Neither had taken time to consider their words before speaking, and the bemused expressions on their faces confirmed that truth without need or question. In the next instant, a pair of smiles appeared, and laughter flooded the room like smoke trapped in a closed chute. It chased anxiety, fear, confusion, and all manner of ill feeling from the room. They laughed harder and harder, until his stomach hurt from shaking and her breath became short.

And though neither could forget the carnal interest nor the intense anxiety that came with it, a conversation began about the pleasantries of alcohol, and soon it opened up into their usual back-and-forth over meals with additional banter and laughter that they had not yet sown. Their conversation continued until long after the tea had gone cold and their eyes became heavy with tiredness, so they retired for the night certain that, at the very least, happiness was not out of reach.

They fell into a comfortable cycle, a familiar pattern that continued, making the days and weeks blur together, as if they were passing at paradoxical speed, simultaneously swift and dawdling. Perhaps this was why three months seemed a short, blissful interval between the fall of the Dockmaster and the coming of the Stormbringer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Greek mythology, Hestia was the goddess of family and domestic life; her name means both 'home' and 'hearth.'
> 
>  **Author's note** : Apologies for not updating yesterday. I’ve been under the weather. Also, this chapter was mostly fluff to set up the next update, with is action-packed and a little heart-crushing. I hope you tune in next week!


	16. A Tempest for Eurydice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : This chapter contains sexual violence as well as threats of sexual violence.

Across the Northmost Lands, there was a legend about a man descended from the giants or the titans, depending on who told the tale, and he stood above the heads of other men twice over. Some said that this man - if, indeed anyone could rightly call him a man - could not die, for his wounds healed as if no harm had ever come to him. Others claimed that no mortal weapon had any power to inflict injury upon him. While accounts varied on such things, one fact remained consistent and true: he never lost a battle. It was said that once an entire army beset him. A hundred archers, five hundred pikemen, two hundred swordsmen, and some two hundred others bearing maces, morning stars, and axes surrounded him and attacked. A thousand arrows and five hundred pikes pierced him, yet he slaughtered his assailants, all one thousand of them, down to the last, leaving none alive but the scouts who only survived because they were swift enough to escape his grasp.

The army raised his ire and woke his wrath. From their pendants and crests he knew the army's commander to be the Knight of Reflection, who lived in the Castle of Mirrors in the northwestern corner of the land, so he immediately marched on the hapless fort. He took no horse nor shield with him, only his sword, and he cared nothing for the comings and goings of the sun. None knew how many days and nights he traveled, but upon his arrival, a great tempest arose from the southeast, as if his rage had a will of its own that manifested in the natural world.

He stood outside the castle, his sword drawn and ready, as the rain poured like never before, flooding the moat and castle barricades alike. The thunder was so loud that it deafened all who heard it, and the lightning that followed struck many within the castle walls as sure as if they were cast to the mark. That same lighting started fires all over the castle that the rain could not extinguish, forcing every living creature into the courtyard. As they stood huddled and terrified, he breached the walls as if they were not there, and he laid the castle to waste, slaughtering all but two men and three women.

The first survivor was the Third Cook, a beautiful young woman who worked in the kitchens, and it was for her beauty that he stayed his sword and spared her. He chained her by the gate and continued slaying the others, but he stayed his hand from the handsome Baker who had eyes like sapphires. Likewise, he spared the Seamstress, the Server, and the Fourth Maid, for each one had beauty enough for his desire. Once the stones of the castle had been drowned in blood, he claimed these five as spoils of war, to live our their lives as his concubines, living only to pleasure him at his command. 

Upon hearing his words, the Third Cook taunted him, goading him to kill her, for she would rather die than be a slave to the man who killed all she loved. He unchained her and brought her to the courtyard, where the bodies stacked high on all sides, and he forced her to look upon all her murdered friends and family while he savagely beat her under the pouring rain. When the pain and cold sapped her of her strength and the fight inside her went out like a snuffed candle, he dragged her to the ramparts to show her the ruin of her home. He bent her over the wall and forced himself on her, telling her of all the terrible things he might do to her and the four others he'd claimed. His brutality did not abate until the dawn, when he threw her naked, beaten, and bleeding on the parapet. He instructed her to tell everyone what had transpired and why, and should she fail in her task, he would return to claim her as his slave, as he did the four others. He promised that any other foolish enough to send assassins or armies to harm him would suffer the same fate. Then he wiped his sword clean with her torn and tattered clothing and abandoned her in the ruin of the castle, taking the four chained survivors with him.

Those that heard the Third Cook's story did not believe at first, but there was no denying the devastation of the Castle of Mirrors. 

Thus the tale of the Stormbringer spread far and wide. If this title was one he told the Third Cook or one crafted for him for the onerous tempest that rose behind him and descended on the castle, no one could ever say with any certainty. But it soon became his only title in living memory. 

The Stormbringer was not like other titles, for it was neither granted to him nor indicated his duties and position. In the years after the devastation of the Castle of Mirrors, the Stormbringer targeted fortresses and villages, murdering all but a few he claimed as concubines, and soon after, he created something of a caravan, traveling with bought soldiers to act as jailors for his harem of slaves as he went from place to place. Towns and cities would present the Stormbringer with offerings, that he might spare their lives and homes. 

He called these offerings tribute, as the rulers of old received, and he named himself the Northmost King, boasting of his greatest, though Northedge never assented to monarchy nor any kind of formal rule. He spent his days carousing in the largest cities of the Northmost Lands, where every living creature knew his name, demanding gifts under pain of his wrath and the storm that always followed.

None challenged his title, and though his position was pure invention, after many decades of insistence, intimidation, and retaliation, many acted as if he were a king born to rule. The Northmost cities placated the man with wine, currency, slaves, and goods tantamount to the tax paid by those in the Midlands, an unheard of practice in Northedge. While he boasted himself the Stormbringer, the man who drew blood from the mountains, and other such names from tales of his obscure deeds in faraway places, anyone who had courage enough to whisper called him by his true title: the Tyrant.

It was said that he had armies just to do nothing but march around him while he imbibed libations, but truth be told, the many soldiers who accompanied him did so in protection of their own families. Should they refuse to participate in the guard of the 'Northmost King,' the Stormbringer would devastate their homes as he did the Castle of Mirrors. The stories of murder of Northmost heroes like the Serpent Slayer and the Swift Messenger along with all their kin spread quickly, and soon even the fiercest of warriors refused to fight the Stormbringer. Thus, the Tyrant's caravan contained a great many heroes and heroines of the north, and wherever he went, they followed.

There were rumors that the Northmost King had marched south seeking the one thing he desired most, though no one dared guess what it might be, for what could such a coddled beast seek? Whatever it was, it took him to the edge of the Great Untamed Ocean, where he set his sights on the Sole Beacon of the Northmost Lands.

Had the man been a true king, the harbor would've provided a full escort and envoy, but Northedge knew no king. A man with a false title was a man with nothing to lose, and those of the North would never serve him willingly. Thus, the Stormbringer continued his journey by demanding the service of the most impressive looking vessel. His Chamberlain corralled his entourage of heroes and heroines so that they each took a seat and rowed in unison as the Northmost King stared at his destination: Stagrock Light.

Thus, the Survivor saw his approach from the north. He stood tall on the edge of the longboat with at least twenty at the oars, his features hidden in shadow by the sun's glare across the water. The Keeper heard the approaching vessel first, and as his duty dictated, he suspended his current labor and descended to the basement and out to the dock, the better to greet his guest.

Though the Survivor was Second Keeper and not required to follow, she did. After a short but furious conversation, she agreed to wait inside and watch from the midline. Whatever business their guest had likely did not require the Second Keeper, nor any knowledge of her existence for that matter.

It was the Keeper's opinion that beautiful women attracted more attention than handsome men. Rather than providing that as his reason for asking her to remain inside (which surely would've resulted in a slap to the face), he told her that Stagrock Light had never been visited by anyone except himself and the Dockmaster for all his long years, and the newfound interest in the lighthouse made him wary.

The sentiment was true enough, and she accepted it.

The Keeper awaited the landing of the unknown man, but the closer he came, the more trepidation he felt. The man was too tall to be born human, at least eight feet, possibly taller. He had a broad, sturdy build that did not match his youthful face. In fact, had he seen a portrait of this stranger, the Keeper would've thought him a child budding into his manhood.

Something beneath the surface, deep within, stirred at the sight of the man's face. He was familiar, yet the Keeper had never met him. And for a time, he entertained the idea that they had known each other in some kind of past life, but he put it out of his mind as the long ship came within shouting distance.

"I am the Keeper of Stagrock Light, the Sole Beacon of the Northmost Lands," the Keeper announced. "What is your business here?"

Harsh scoffing and laughter echoed across the water, and the ship continued without requesting permission to dock nor call for a mooring. A very average-looking man leaped onto the dock as soon as their approach closed the gap. Once secure, the giant-sized man with a boy's face stepped onto the dock.

He towered over the Keeper, nearly blotting the sun from the sky, and the scoffing and laughter continued aboard the long ship.

"I am the Stormbringer," the man said. "Perhaps you've heard of me, though I have other names. The only one that concerns you, Keeper of the Sole Beacon, is the Northmost King."

The Keeper had heard tales of the man but had never any reason to suspect he actually existed. He covered his ignorance with as much formality as he could muster without a bow.

"Welcome to Stagrock, Stormbringer," he announced. "Forgive my formality. I only meant to present myself with good manners and respect."

"Good, good," the Stormbringer replied. "I have come here seeking a treasure which I desire above all others. One that I can only find here, and as you are a well-mannered man, I expect that you know it would be poor indeed to refuse a demand from your king."

"Aye," he replied stiffly.

The Stormbringer began to pace, preening himself like a peacock, speaking as if those around him wanted to hear what he had to say.

"For many years, my kingship was questioned," the Stormbringer began dramatically. "Who can be born a king in the Northmost Lands? What lineage produces heirs after the old ways? How they all loathed me till the day I struck them down. One after the other after the other after the other until there were no more people speaking against me. That is how a monarch rules. But after many years of constant contest and feasts, I find myself looking towards the future. They asked what kind of lineage in the Northmost Lands begets a king, and I confess, there is none. Not one mate for me exists in this forsaken land, for under the eyes of the law, all are equals, which means not one of you is great, save for me, the king who took the power he desired."

He paused, allowing the light to play across his face, closing his eyes as a breeze passed him by. The Keeper knew a performer when he saw one, and it was clear the man had honed his craft.

"That leaves me in something of a quandary," the Stormbringer continued. "For while I have my pick of bitches for breeding bastards, not one woman is my equal, and therefore there is no Northmost Queen."

"If it's a queen you seek, I fear that I don't I qualify," the Keeper said with a combination of jest and defiance.

He earned a resounding response from the long ship and a dark flicker from the Stormbringer's eyes.

The giant of a man was suddenly too close for comfort, his hand at the Keeper's thigh, slowly sliding up to his more delicate parts before continuing sensuously to his chin. He gave a hard tug that shook the Keeper from his step, his grip so tight it bruised his jawline.

"You are a pretty, pretty thing," the Stormbringer said dangerously. "I could do many a terrible thing to you."

The lascivious smirk on his face made the Keeper's skin crawl, and there was no doubt in his mind that the man was not referring to any kind of shared pleasure. No, the Stormbringer delighted in power, in ravishing; he enjoyed forcing men and women alike to submit to his own desires in complete disregard to their own. 

He held the Keeper in that awkward stare for what felt like a very long time. Then he released him and shoved him back a few paces.

"Pity you've been maimed beyond repair," the Stormbringer continued callously. "No cripple could ever suit me, let alone a man of your... repute. No, I came a very long way to find a woman suitable for breeding a true heir. There may be no royal lineage but my own, but I can remedy that with a harem of concubines. Once I produce a daughter with fitting beauty, I shall marry her and start a lineage of pure royalty that will last every generation. But I've gotten ahead of myself, of course. Before I can have a worthy mate, one to wed before I bed, I must refill the ranks of my harem. Oh, but I am so very particular about the shape and... well, the shape of the those in my harem. I could fuck ugly women all day, but they only produce bastards as ugly as themselves. To be an heir worthy of my wedding band, to be a daughter worthy of becoming my wife, she requires a mother of undeniable beauty. And, of course, enough life left in her for breeding me generation upon generation. I won't settle for anything but the best."

He bent over so his face lined up with the Keeper's.

"I've seen portraits of the woman who acts as Second Keeper," he hissed. "Not to mention all kinds of personal accounts. Tell me, how long has she been keeping your bed warm? Or are you more traditional? Going to her bed for however long you last inside her before leaving her unsatisfied for the night?"

The Keeper kept his expression neutral and did not reply, but something of his face must've revealed the truth - that he and the Survivor did not have intimate relations - for the man stood up with a howling laugh that echoed.

"Surely a real man would have taken her by now," the Stormbringer taunted. "Call it one of her many duties or a repayment of her debt to you granting her position. I wouldn't mind if you indulged. I've found there's nothing better than a woman after she's been had by a lesser man. Not quite broken in, and oh so grateful to finally know what it should've been like."

When the Keeper did not reply, the Stormbringer continued, "I am here to take the Second Keeper as the first of my harem. As you yourself have admitted, it would be poor manners to refuse your king anything."

"Indeed," he replied, his voice strained with rage. "But as I am neither her husband nor her kin, I have no claim over her, and therefore no right to give her to anyone. Even if I were, it has been custom for nearly a thousand years for people to give themselves."

He spoke boldly in hopes of distracting the Stormbringer from seeking the Survivor before she had ample chance to hide. He had no way of knowing that his efforts were entirely futile.

* * *

While the Northmost King imposed upon the Keeper, the Chamberlain snuck into the lighthouse. He ascended the stairs, but he was forced to stop when a knife went to his throat. The Survivor pulled him into the kitchen.

"You haven't changed," the Chamberlain grunted.

The knife clattered to the floor, for was so surprised to see who had invaded her home that she dropped her weapon.

"Deputy?" the Survivor asked, dumbfounded. 

From his plain face to the dome of his nearly-shaved head, there was no mistaking him. He had grown up the next town over, so they had known each other, however distantly, since childhood. He was the last man to serve as her Second Deputy back in New Brook. His born name was Greg, or something like that. She hadn't heard it in many years. 

"Fugitive," he sneered. "Or is it Refugee? Disgrace? What title do people spit out when forced to speak to you?"

"Second Keeper," she replied, though admittedly no one addressed her like that. The Keeper had taken to calling her Survivor, and the name had stuck. "Why are you here?"

"Me?" the man asked smugly. "I'm here to see justice done. See, I'm not a deputy in some town no one cares about. I'm the Chamberlain of the Northmost King."

"Northedge doesn't have a king," she retorted. 

"Haven't you heard about the man who descended from titans?" the Chamberlain asked.

"You mean the Tyrant?" she asked skeptically. "The one who terrorizes the Northmost cities? He's not real. He's a ghost story, a legend."

"If I were you, I wouldn't let him hear you say that," the Chamberlain warned. "He would not like that at all. He's no legend, Fugitive, but I don't expect you to take my word for it. See for yourself. He's outside as we speak."

The Survivor went to the kitchen's north-facing window, which overlooked Stagrock's dock. She couldn't believe her own eyes, for the visitor stood nearly twice the height of the Keeper. Even at a distance, looking at him made her skin crawl despite the fact that, during the few moments she cared to look upon the man, nothing about his dress or deportment inspired disgusted. Somehow, she knew he was rot to his very core.

Before she could ask the Chamberlain about his new position and manner of service, he laughed. It was a very peculiar laugh, specific to him, and she had only its like after he survived particularly dubious encounters. When he was Second Deputy, it was a laugh of relief, but now it was mirthful and jubilant.

"Your expression is priceless," he said.

"Why work for him?" she asked. "Do you believe in his cause, or - "

The Chamberlain interrupted, "Cause? Make no mistake, he is a monstrosity. By the looks of people he drags into his bedchamber - I mean, the ones who are actually seen again - he's none too gentle, and he has no problems locking, uh, how shall we say? Less than interested parties in his chamber for weeks on end. I've seen him break people ten times stronger than you."

The absolute pleasure on his face when he spoke infuriated her. She had known him for a long time, and he had always valued justice and protected the innocent, especially those who couldn't protect themselves. What had happened to make him delight in wrongful imprisonment, abuse, and rape?

"What happened to you?" she asked with genuine concern. "Since when did you smile at other people's misery?"

"Watch your mouth, bitch!" the Chamberlain snarled. "I am the Chamberlain of the Northmost King, and you will show me the respect due to those in my station!"

The Survivor quite nearly responded apologetically, but it was nothing but a reflex, a knee-jerk reaction inspired by years of stepping over the line in her jokes poking fun at her Second Deputy. She had never meant offense with her teasing and always apologized for it when she went too far. Yet, while she had once known the man before her, he was no longer the Second Deputy she had trained. In the few months since she was forced to flee her home, he had not only taken on a new title and position; he had also transmuted into an unrecognizable parody of himself. The Chamberlain's reprimand was wholly unfounded, and when she looked into his eyes, she saw the white hot fury of a bully drunk on power, whose sole ambition was to do what he pleased to whoever he pleased. 

She'd never apologize to him, but likewise, she saw no cause to fuel his rage any further. So she said nothing. After a few minutes of glowering, the Chamberlain realized she wasn't going to respond, and he put on a smug smile for his tiny victory.

"I didn't come here to trade insults with a disgrace like you," he said casually, smoothing over the shoulders of his fine dress coat, as if this conversation was nothing but an inconvenience. "I came here by order of the Stormbringer, the Northmost King, to present you with this."

He handed her an envelope complete with title and wax seal. Formalities aside, the Chamberlain grinned from ear to ear, as if this was the best moment of his life.

"You escaped trial for murdering my friend," he said, his voice low and threatening. "You even got away with murdering the Locksmith. Somehow, you managed to get here and live freely. So, since I can't put you in a barred prison, where you belong, I had to get... creative to exact justice."

"Justice?" she spat back. "You help a murderer and a rapist!"

"Yes I do," he replied smugly. "He will fuck so hard you can't walk and keep putting babies in you year after year until you're too slack and ugly for him to fuck anymore. You'll never see your own children, who will be every bit his whores as you, and when you finally see what has become of your life, I'm going to be the one who watches as you try to kill yourself, over and over again, saving you every time. You deserve a lifetime of penance, Fugitive, and I'm here to ensure you have it."

With that, he turned on his heel and marched to the stairs. As he descended, he hummed a happy, upbeat tune, and while the Survivor wanted to throttle the man, she knew it would come to nothing. He wanted revenge enough to leave his post and serve a ghastly beast to achieve his ends. She could only imagine the horrific things he was ordered to do to prove himself to the Stormbringer.

Without thinking on it, she opened the envelope and took out a letter that was addressed, in some fashion, to her.

_Dear Refugee of Northedge:_

_After hearing tales of your beauty, I have come a long way to take you as the first of my new harem. You will have the pleasure of my company and the honor of bearing my legitimate children._

_In keeping with this honor, you will forfeit all rights and titles and submit yourself to me, and I will take you to my lands in the north, where you will live out the rest of your days. In the tradition of the Midlands, your homeland, I offer you the gift of one week's preparation. On the morning of the seventh day, I shall return for you._

_While I acquiesce to these inane, foreign customs, do not mistake my manners for request nor proposal. I am certain that you have heard tales of what befalls those who attempt to deny me what is mine. Be swift to my side or know the true nature of punishment and suffering._

_Stormbringer, the Northmost King  
Descendant of the Titans_

The Survivor read it more than once, resisting the urge to scream in anger each time. She couldn't ignore the threat at the end, for nearly every story she'd heard about him maintained that the Stormbringer killed the family and friends of those who defied him, down to children and long-lost relatives. Given that his Chamberlain had lived in New Brook mere months ago, there was no doubt he knew about her entire family, so his threat surely fell upon them.

She stood inside the kitchen, lost in perilous thoughts. It must've been for quite some time, for she didn't quit them until the Keeper was shaking her by the shoulders.

"Can you hear me?" he said loudly. "Survivor! _Emma_!"

It was her born name that snapped her out of her stupor. He had never spoken it to her in all this time, and the sound of her name on his lips was wonderful. But then she remembered the reason for her misery, and all beauty was lost to her.

"I can hear you," she replied.

"I didn't realize one of them had snuck in," he said. "I am so sorry. Did he hurt you?"

"Not physically," she replied. "He gave me this letter."

She handed it to him, and he read it over with a digusted look on his face.

"The Dockmaster!" the Keeper roared, slamming his hand on the counter. "This is his sick, twisted revenge."

"Actually, it's not," she said quietly. "This isn't about you, Killian."

His born name seemed a strange utterance, yet she liked the way it tasted.

"The man with him, the one who delivered the letter, he knew me. He knew the man I killed. And - "

"I won't allow it," the Keeper interrupted. "This man is no king. He's nothing but a monster. He has no right - "

"It's not about right," she cut him off. "This man slaughters families, and he knows where every person I have ever cared about lives. Including you."

"No," the Keeper replied. "You can't be considering this."

"Why not?" she asked. "The Second Deputy - the Chamberlain now - said that I deserve penance. Suffering. Maybe he's right. Maybe this is my punishment for murdering the - for killing Walsh and everything else."

"Extinguishing the life of another has a price," he replied gently. "Guilt. But this? No one deserves this, least of all you. We have seven days. Before you resign yourself to anything, allow me six."

"For what?"

"Hope," he replied. "We can find a way to stop him, and we won't just be doing it for you. He's terrorized all of Northedge for an age. Help me free us all from the horror of that man."

"He's not a man," she pointed out. "He's a titan, or part titan. No human stands a chance."

"Not alone," the Keeper replied. "Please, don't give up. Not yet."

"Six days," she said in quiet agreement. "But if we fail, you must promise me that you will do nothing when he comes for me. I will go with him willingly, no protest, no fighting."

"You have my word," he said. "But it won't come to that."

The Keeper felt the despair radiating from the Survivor. He felt foolish, for he had promised his brother that he would fight to remember his past life and protect the Survivor. Yet in the last three months, he did nothing to keep his promise, abandoning everything in favor of idling his days away in the Survivor's company. He had allowed his interest to get in the way of his word, and now his promise and his companion could both be lost to him forever. 

Before he could press the matter, the Survivor ascended the stairs, leaving the Keeper alone with naught but deeply unpleasant thoughts for company. He would find a way to save her from this madman, even if he had to die to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eurydice was a nymph in Greek mythology who was bitten by a viper and died. Her husband, Orpheus, loved her so dearly that he descended into the Underworld armed with nothing but his enchanting music, that he might bring her back to life.


	17. For the Descent of Hermes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : This chapter contains violent storms, injury, and pursuit, among other warnings. Please mind the content warnings for the story.

_Several months ago in the Great Untamed Ocean,_ the Accomplice held fast to the wheel, his knuckles white with the effort of his grip. He knew precious little about seafaring, but luckily, their northbound journey required nothing more than a steady hand and a watchful eye.

His eyelids fluttered again. He was exhausted.

"You shouldn't be piloting."

The familiar voice yanked him out of his stupor, but the inertia of tiredness persisted. He hadn't heard her come up from below deck.

"A bit of an irrelevancy," he replied.

The Fugitive crossed her arms as she slouched forward slightly. He always thought she was something of a proto-deity, a goddess before goddesses existed. Not because of her beauty, though the jade orbs that comprised her eyes perfectly matched her long, golden tresses and her fair skin. No, there was something else about her that permeated her splendor, superseding it while acting as a perfect complement, and despite having no word for it, no name by which to call it nor means by which to speak of it, there was no question of its presence. It was as real to him as his own existence, even when he could barely keep his eyes open.

The Fugitive looked him over. The Accomplice stood firm, his back straight and his arms comfortably resting against the wheel, yet he bore the indelible marks of fatigue. His eyes seemed like empty hollows above his cheeks, so dark were the rungs beneath them. The slackness of sleep lingered in his lips and jaw, and his dark brown hair was closer to disheveled than its customary wave of untamed curls, matching the unforgiving untidiness of his facial hair, having been unattended for three days. She watched him steel himself against the dregs of slumber and witnessed his resolve falter under its weight.

Her perceptive and critical eye was hampered only slightly by her abject fear of the water. The Accomplice had stolen _The Golden Swan_ after carrying her aboard, unconscious and unaware. Had he done otherwise, she would've run into the arms of her would-be captors rather than set sight on the coastline, let alone either foot upon a ship.

Yet here they were, in the middle of the Great Untamed Ocean, where there was no land to remedy her situation. He, too stubborn to relent, and she, too terrified to take control. She had drained her resolve ascending from the lower deck, where the enclosed space made self-deception possible despite the continuous rocking of their transport.

Regardless, the Fugitive had slept most of the day, and restfulness brought clarity. Her anxiety of unknown depths prevented her from boarding ships and venturing out for a swim, but she found an upsurge in her courage, a pulse that gave her legs to stand on, albeit shaking slightly. So long as she remained inside the ship, the walls sheltered her from the repressive truth of the ocean surrounding her, always ready to swallow her into the abyss that stretched fathoms and fathoms deep.

She bit her own tongue, a tiny reprimand for indulging in the fearful fantasies that had followed her for as long as she could remember. She had survived too much to falter now. She capitalized off the physical pain radiating from her tongue, catapulting herself into decisive action.

"You need rest," she insisted.

"I can't rest and pilot the ship," he replied. 

"I can handle it for a few hours."

"Can you really?" he inquired. "You're trembling."

"I know how. I've done it before. It's just like _The Yellow Bug_ ," she said. "All the charts say that there's nothing till we reach the islands off the mainland of Northedge."

"Charts can be wrong."

"Worst case, I drop anchor and wake you," she persisted. "It's safer than you trying to steer with your eyes closed."

The Accomplice nodded his head affirmatively, and the loll in his chin did not go unnoticed.

"Graham!" she snapped loudly.

"All right, you're right," he replied. "But I'm not leaving the bridge. Just a kip for a few hours on the couch. As soon as the sun comes up, you wake me, Emma."

"I will."

He released the wheel, stepping aside and proffering his place at the helm to her. With a measured stride, she stepped up and clasped either side. When she first cast a glance out over the murky horizon, she felt dizzy and weak, her mind confusing the blackness of the night sky with the murkiness of the ocean. She leaned against the helm for support till her balance came back to her.

"You square, then?" the Accomplice asked.

"Yeah, Graham, you sleep," she replied, her words steadying her.

* * *

Fear kept her rooted to the spot, her focus honed in on the rolling waves ahead. Her stiffness stayed the course, holding _The Golden Swan_ steady through the night as the Accomplice slept.

But her dogged resolution gave her tunnel vision. From the weakness in her knees and the snarling hunger deep in her belly, she perceived that the night had passed into day, yet the dimness tricked her, concealing the dawn as if still in the offing. Some combination of her fear and determination obscured the dark, heavy clouds gathering above and the rising of the waves.

"Emma?" the Accomplice said, the sleep heavy in his voice. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"It's still dark," she replied.

His movements were sluggish and clumsy, but he stumbled over to the helm, his sole ambition to glimpse the ocean ahead. Yet his eyes resolutely refused to move from the Fugitive, taking in the rigid form of her body, the unblinking stare of her face, and even the shaky rasp of her breath. From her startlingly firm grip and the unwavering position of her eyes, he understood her to be awake and aware, yet none of her person was in it, as if her spirit had frozen within to stem the tide of turmoil drummed up by the ocean, by the memories of the shipwreck.

His careful review of his long-time friend prevented him from sooner recognized their grievous misfortune, though in truth, the few moments of foreknowledge would not have been enough to change the course of their fate.

"Go below deck," he announced, keeping his voice as level as possible. "Rest up."

"I'm good," she replied automatically.

"You're shaking," he pointed out. "Probably because you haven't taken a break or eaten anything. I can take over. Go below and rest up."

The Fugitive didn't reply, but she relinquished the helm without further question. She stumbled to the couch, nearly collapsing into it as her legs crumbled beneath her. She felt ill, but it was more than just seasickness. She heard the strain in his words, that edge in his voice that revealed the shadow of knowledge he attempted to conceal.

Something was amiss, and he knew it. His first instinct was to protect her. She wanted nothing more than to leave the bridge and hide inside the belly of the ship, but when she looked back at the Accomplice, she saw the budding signs of panic break the surface of his veneer.

"I won't leave you," she said.

"Emma, please."

"You might need my help."

"You can't help," he said. "Those clouds? They're a gathering storm, and we're headed straight for it."

His alarm amplified her fears, but the direness of their situation tempered her nerves. She had outlasted one shipwreck, and this time would be no different, save for one fact: she would not survive this storm alone.

"I'm not leaving you."

* * *

The sea remained calm until midday, for the weather changed gradually, providing the Fugitive a modicum of relief while the Accomplice prepared the ship. Then the waves began to pitch, casting the vessel in unforgiving rolls that were so deep that, had she the will to stand, would knock her back to her seat.

She closed her eyes and listened to the howling the wind and the persistent pitter-patter from above, her body rigid with paralysis born of her memories. She pretended she was elsewhere, apart from her body on dry land hundreds of miles from the treachery of the ocean, and for a time, her imagination successfully transported her far, far away, back to the comforts of home.

Or, what had once been home.

The Fugitive held on to the bittersweet recollections for the better part of the day. Twice the Accomplice shook her back to the horrifying reality of the wind-battered ship, but only to insist that she eat and drink when the weather was yet calm enough for meals.

He refused to relent until she consumed her rations, so despite the dryness of her mouth and the unruliness of her stomach, she chewed and swallowed whatever the Accomplice put to her, forcing it down her throat with gulps of water when her body protested the intrusion. She was rewarded with queasiness and an unfortunate sensation in her center that matched the movements of the vessel, amplifying its effects on her tenfold.

Then the wind transformed into a wailing scream that punctuated the rousing torrent cascading over them. The waves matched the voracity of the storm, and the cacophony became a devastating and deafening din. All she could do was curl up, her hands cupping her ears as she sealed her eyelids shut.

No longer capable of picturing herself anywhere else but aboard a wayward ship in a merciless storm, the Fugitive placated herself with mantras and platitudes, but they were nothing but hollow reassurances that failed to distract her from her panic.

The more will she poured into remaining calm, the stronger the pull of her memories. The last time she was on a ship, a storm consumed the vessel, throwing her and her passenger into the near-freezing water. The smell, the taste of salt dredged up the sensation of throbbing, aching numbness, a souvenir of the last time she was caught aboard a ship in a storm.

She wished she was ashore. She wished she could forget. She wished a hundred thousand things.

But wishing never made it so.

* * *

At some point, the Fugitive fell asleep, though she had no conscious memory of falling into her dreams in the middle of a raging tempest. The Accomplice tied her down to prevent the violent movement of the ship from throwing her this way or that, and a single blanket prevented the coarse rope from biting into her fair, supple skin. It was a crude method of safety, but it was the only one at his fingertips during the short lulls of the storm.

On the horizon, he saw cliffs rising up from the water. The tales of Northedge claimed that the shore of the mainland was flanked by cliffs just like those, and while they were yet another obstacle to avoid, they also proved that their destination was not far off. Even with the navigational hazards ahead, they could reach shore by sundown.

He cast a glance back the way they came, and his stomach rolled at the sight of the storm clouds. They had made it through, but the winds were coming back around. It was a good thing that they were so close to landfall, for come nighttime, the Great Untamed Ocean would be in the throws of a storm far worse than they had just weathered. 

So far _The Golden Swan_ had fared well through the worst of it, and the Accomplice allowed himself a few moments of relaxation before worrying about the coming day. He would wake the Fugitive to check on her well being, then they would make for land. If they had to, they could abandon the ship and take one of the smaller boats to circumvent the risk of running aground in the shallows.

He took a deep breath and remembered who he was.

The Accomplice, formerly the Bailiff, had grown up with his mother and father until the day they took him on a hiking trip deep into the forest and abandoned him without food or shelter. He scarcely survived, and his parents were arrested and sent to prison, and for a very long time, he lived as the Orphan. Eventually, seeking to join the justice system, he trained and became the Bailiff to the town over, New Brook.

No, that was all nonsense.

In his true life, had been abandoned in the woods, but the wolves raised him. They were his kin. Then he sacrificed his freedom to save a young woman, though the details escaped him. Somehow, he went from being an unnamed Huntsman to Graham Humbert, Sheriff of a small town. He had met the Fugitive there, and she acted as his deputy. Or was it the other way around?

There was no sense in any of it, but it felt real, more real than this life ever was. He desperately wanted to know more, but his mind only doled out fractured pieces. Only two weeks previous, he had known nothing of this, so he attempted patience and vigilance. 

_It happened when I went into the woods_ , he thought. _It was terrifying, yet I did it. That's when I started to remember._

Facing his fear was what began the onslaught of memory. His eyes fell on the still-sleeping Fugitive, and he wondered if she need only do the same. She feared the ocean as much as he feared the woods, so would her journey across the Great Untamed Ocean unlock memories from this other life? How could he possibly explain any of this?

All he knew was that the last six weeks of his life had been the happiest he ever lived, all because of the woman sleeping soundly in front of him.

"Wake up," he said as he cupped her cheek. "It's time to wake up."

* * *

The Fugitive woke when the Accomplice called, but the storm had taken a heavy toll on her. He convinced her to eat and drink. She halfheartedly offered to take the wheel, but no steering was required for many leagues yet.

They discussed leaving the ship and taking the lifeboat, but it was too small to fit any supplies. Thus, they agreed to take the gig, _The Golden Swan II_. After much insistence from the Fugitive, the Accomplice stepped aside and allowed her to pilot so he could prepare the boat for launch.

He spent a few hours securing as many supplies as could fit aboard the tiny craft, doing his best to ignore the dark pall that slowly crept up from the south. The storm front was approaching faster than he anticipated, and there was every possibility that it would strike before they could make it to shore.

He returned to the bridge and took the helm, happy that the Fugitive seemed alert and unafraid, for despite its restful beginnings and all current appearances, he knew that they had a difficult day ahead.

It took another hour for him to discover that they had traversed the space between two large cliffs that jutted out from the mainland, connected by nothing but an enormous, rocky wall that rose up hundreds of feet into the sky. Either the chart was wrong, or he miscalculated their position, for there was nowhere to land either ship or boat to disembark, though the chart did indicate a cove.

Thus, they wasted several hours sailing to an impassable shore, thereafter doubling their time lost by leaving to correct their course. Once clear of the rocks, he took the long spyglass and scouted the area. It was nigh impossible to tell a cove from an impassible wall at this distance, but there was only one other area with a sheltered shore ahead, which left him with but one option, lest they sail onward for another day and night to the central mainland. Given the storm on their heels, he could only hope that the chart wasn't leading him astray.

Had the Accomplice had more in the way of seafaring knowledge, he would've known that they had sailed beyond the cove at which he intended to land, and their current course put them on their way to the central mainland of Northedge. Alas, he was an astute navigator of the land and not the sea, and landfall was much farther a journey than he knew.

However, his choice to continue north rather than changing direction was fortuitous, for unbeknownst to either wary traveler, the price of their capture had been raised so high that an entire team of bounty hunters sought them, going so far as to hire a crew to ferry them north in pursuit. At the very moment the Accomplice mistakenly decided to press north, those same bounty hunters waited in the southernmost cove of Northedge, ready to capture their quarry upon approach. Thus, his error inadvertently afforded them a few hours head start.

But, like many a bounty hunter so close to their prey, they quickly became restless, and when _The Golden Swan_ failed to appear on the horizon, so they commissioned a second ship to continue north, leaving half their rank and file at the cove's harbor. 

It was not long after - perhaps two hours - that the Accomplice realized that that cove was to the south, and at that point, he wondered if they weren't better off continuing on their present course. It was better to be aboard _The Golden Swan_ when the tempest fell again, and with any luck - and it was time they were due luck's courtesy - the storm would pass quickly. This time, though, they would drop anchor and wait it out, for he knew the central shoreline of the Northmost Lands was perilous, with many an unexpected place to run aground.

He hesitated, concerned that his decision to stay the course was rash or stubborn rather than wise. Asking the Fugitive to mind the helm, he climbed the mast to the crow's nest, as it afforded him the best vantage point. Using the spyglass, he saw that islands were far off in the north. With no storm or dangerous waters, they could've arrived by dawn the next day, but as things were, they'd arrive by the following midday at the earliest.

For good measure, he cast his spyglass south, calculating the time it would take to change course, factoring in the storm. He concluded that it would, in fact, be faster to change course and return south to the cove, even if they dropped anchor for the storm.

The Accomplice was ready to descend back to the bridge when something stopped him. It wasn't a voice in his head nor a feeling in his gut, but something told him that he needed to look again and, this time, to look harder.

Seeing no harm in thoroughness, he lifted the spyglass to his eye and looked south. The dark clouds were gathering, their appearance on the horizon quite menacing, but something else stood out against the line between the sea and sky. It was little more than a dark dot at first, yet soon it became clear that the shapeless form was, in fact, a ship. He adjusted the spyglass fruitlessly, hoping to spot the flags they flew, but all he could do was wait. He could make out the style and shape of the vessel, which was enough to tell that it was a cutter, or something of a similar class, crafted to be swift even with a heavy cargo load.

Dred made him numb. He knew long before he could see the flags that this was not a ship of Northedge; no, this was the kind of vessel built either to outrun dangers or to overtake enemies. It was exactly the kind of ship someone would want to capture a Fugitive and her Accomplice before they made landfall in the Northmost Lands.

Still, he waited. He would not be able to conceal this from the Fugitive, for while _The Golden Swan_ was a fine vessel, it did not have the means to outrun or outmaneuver a ship crafted and crewed for speed. If this ship was what he feared, they had very little in the way of options, and their only chance would likely be dangerous and desperate. Yet somehow, he held on to that sliver of hope inside him that said it may yet be a northbound transport bent on outrunning the storm.

His heart sank when he saw the flag of the Midlands flown above the bounty hunter's mark.

The Accomplice hastily left the crows nest, at one point falling more than climbing down and nearly crashing to the deck. He ran to the bridge and, in the calmest voice he had to offer, he told the Fugitive what he had seen.

"We can't outrun them?" she asked.

"No."

"We can't fight them off?"

"No," he replied simply.

"Then what can we do?"

He didn't hesitate to tell her his plan, and she didn't hide how much she hated it. _The Golden Swan_ could only take them so far, and once the cutter caught a direct line of sight, they would have no means of escape. Luckily, the crew had almost certainly spotted the ship already, which meant they would follow it, and there would be no way for them to know if the Fugitive and the Accomplice were aboard until they were close enough to board the vessel.

The storm was coming, but not as fast as the cutter. That gave them two options: attempt to escape both the storm and the bounty hunters on the gig or wait for the cutter to board them and try to fight their way out.

Neither considered the latter a viable option, so the Accomplice steered into the most treacherous waters ahead, setting a course due east, where the charts indicated a stretch of shoreline some leagues away. Nearby, the water was filled with rocks that rose up here and there, some high enough to obscure even _The Golden Swan_ from view.

It was a good plan, and had he known of the bounty hunters sooner, it would've been a successful ruse. As it was, however, the cutter was gaining fast, and if _The Golden Swan II_ did not disembark immediately, the cutter's spotter would surely witness the departure of the smaller boat, and the subterfuge would fall to ruin.

"You need to take the gig now," the Accomplice insisted.

"Me?" the Fugitive asked. "I could barely steer this ship without falling apart. What makes you think I can row?"

"Because we don't have a choice!" he said loudly. "Listen to me, Emma Swan. Please. Soon we will pass that rock line out there, and the cutter will have a clear line of sight to this vessel. They'll see any boat attempting to leave and pursue it, so you must disembark now, while we're still hidden from sight. I can launch you, and all you have to do is paddle north behind those rocks over there. They won't be able to see you. They'll be so busy following me that they won't notice."

"And what about you?" she demanded. "They'll capture you."

"I don't plan to be aboard when they come looking."

"You're not making any sense."

"They will see any boat, Emma," he said, putting emphasis on her born name. "But they won't spot a man swimming away. You get behind that rock line due north and find a groove - one with high rocks on three sides - and wait. I'll find you."

"That's insane," she hissed. "You'll never make it."

"You're worried about rowing," he said. "Tell me, do you think you could swim?"

Her eyes bulged at the thought, and she didn't need to speak for him to know that the answer was a resounding no.

"I know it's dangerous, impossible even," he continued. "But this area is covered with those rocky inlets. We can't out run them. We're not going to fight them. All we can do is hide and hope that they have enough intelligence to give up the search before the storm falls. There's no time to argue."

The Fugitive swallowed hard, but she steeled herself and stalked over to the boat, which was ready for launch. She trembled as she stepped inside, but she steadied herself as she took hold of the oars.

He went to the ropes and began to launch her.

"Graham," she said quietly. "Please, find me."

"Needn't worry about that," he replied with bravado. "I mean to. Nothing I haven't done before."

He gave her a smile fueled by the joy of hearing his born name on her lips. It was the only time he ever appreciated his name. In the next instant, the boat launched free, dropping onto the waves with a solid splash, and her knuckles went white against the oars.

"Row!" he said as loud as he dared. "Row!"

And row she did. He could've stood and watched her propel herself to safety, but the ship was passing the stone that hid it from view. He was determined to protect her, which meant giving no reason for anyone to suspect that she disembarked from the vessel. Thus, he left for the bridge and took up his place at the helm.

* * *

The Fugitive did exactly as the Accomplice instructed. She was so terrified of the water that she rowed haphazardly, yet somehow she managed to stay the course set for her.

Every time she felt anxiety closing in on her - the panic, the inability to breathe - she pictured the Accomplice, Graham. It wasn't enough to banish her terror, but it kept it at bay and for now, that was enough.

He had been right about perilous waters. The area was filled with rocky ledges that jutted out from below the water. Some just poked their head above the waves, while others were enormous walls that obscured the waters around it.

As she continued, she felt frantic over more than just the ocean, for her imagination went wild with possibilities. She feared her paddling was too loud, so much so that the slapping of the oars echoed across the water, daring to catch the attention of the bounty hunters. She feared that she would be seen whenever she moved beyond a jutting rock, her golden hair shining like a beacon to those who might capture her.

She put the ideas out of her head as best she could, but her panic refused to abate. Her arms trembled as she rowed.

When she felt like she had put enough distant between herself and _The Golden Swan_ , she fretted between two locations that fit Graham's description: an enclosed area with tall rocks on three sides. The first one had less coverage but was several lengths closer to where they parted company. The second concealed her and the boat completely, yet it would force him to swim farther to find her.

Truth be told, the distance from one to the other was hardly worth noting, not when compared to the distance between her and _The Golden Swan_ , but her faculties were not entirely under her control. She was rightly concerned that he would be unable to find her in the second hiding spot, for it suited the name, and, in the end, that was why she decided on it.

But, refusing to leave Graham's return to chance, she ventured into the first location and removed one of the buoys at her feet. She found the best-sealed waterskin aboard and affixed it to the buoy with a short length of rope, placing both in a small nook where the pair would remain unseen by passing boats, but should a swimming man be on the lookout for a rocky enclosure with signs of life, this would catch his eye. When Graham found this place, he'd know she was near.

He'd find her. She was certain of that.

She pushed off and paddled to her true hiding spot, which had higher and longer walls on the north and south. The open side was to the west, which was fortunate, as their pursuers would be coming from the east, if they bothered passing this way at all.

All she could do now was wait.

Indeed, there was no way for her to know that the Accomplice narrowly escaped _The Golden Swan_. The bounty hunters were fast upon him and there was little to conceal him as he swam through the open waters. How he reached the treacherous shallows without being see was beyond him; perhaps they had a drunk in the crow's nest. Once he found a sizeable rock to hide behind, he rested for a few minutes and acquired his barring. He should've been cold and panting for breath; instead, exhilaration invigorated him. The rush from escaping near capture coursed through him, keeping him warm and sharp for the tasks ahead.

He experienced a pleasant calmness pass over him as he found a safe course through the water, and he thought about the trickle of memories from his past life, wondering if any more would come or if the paltry few he had now would be all he ever remembered.

He lived all his life with no knowledge of it, and a reasoned mind would assure him he had no need for such fantasy. Yet all the rationality in the realm could not provide him with true conviction, for however he came to this new life, the one before it must certainly possess its own part. To dismiss it as fanciful thinking or elaborate dreamwork was folly.

As he swam, he vividly recalled waking from a feverish dream in another land, and it had so deeply moved him that he couldn't bare to ignore. He had dressed hastily, despite Regina's insistence that he stay and sleep, and he babbled myriad excuses to her - about never staying over, about his car - as he made his exit from her bed and mansion.

That dream had been about the wolf with mismatched eyes. 

He gasped a great gulp of sea water when he realized that not only was that a memory from a past life, but it also made perfect sense to him, though he had no earthly idea what a car was nor did he know anyone with the born name of Regina. He grabbed hold of the nearest rock to steady himself, and an enormous weight lifted from him.

For that was the moment when the Accomplice knew that he was Graham Humbert, Sheriff of Storybrooke, and before the curse, he lived as the Huntsman.

Everything fell into place effortlessly, but Graham remained uncertain of his newfound clarity. He had memories from three distinct lives, but the transitions between were muddled, especially the last. He recalled a fever overtaking him as those years as the Huntsman returned to him, and the very last thing he'd seen was the face of Emma Swan, the Savior. Then... nothing. The next thing he remembered was waking as a young lad, excited for the hiking trip that his parents had long promised.

Another curse? It seemed unlikely, but he never understood magic nor its practitioners. Perhaps Emma had succeeded in undoing the Evil Queen's curse, forcing Regina to cast another.

He released the rock and began to swim more quickly, for he intended to repay Emma Swan for rescuing him in Storybrooke. She had awoken those old, old memories in him, and he would find a way to do likewise for her.

Meanwhile, the apprehensive Fugitive jammed one of the oars tight into place so that the boat wouldn't float westward with the waves, allowing her to relax her arms and rest while she awaited her companion.

The reprieve was short lived, for while her hiding spot was indeed well selected in terms of concealment, it provided nothing of the comforts afforded by _The Golden Swan_. Between the wind and waves, she couldn't pretend that she was on dry land, and the salty scent came with an odorous companion that she couldn't place. It was deeply unpleasant, akin to rotting fish but twice as vile, and she had no means of escaping it other than the modicum of relief provided by her scarf when covering her nose and mouth. Then there was the sun, which beat down from overhead, forcing her to cover her head in rag cloth, which barely prevent her skin from burning and blistering yet managed to leave her exceedingly hot until the wind blew and cut straight through it, making her shiver. It was entirely uncomfortable, and for a time, the discomfort was something of a boon, as it distracted her from a number of unpleasant truths that awaited her consideration.

The first was that she had no way to know if Graham escaped the bounty hunters, and he hadn't told her how long she should wait before she went looking for him. Neither did he tell her the means and methods of such a search. Not only did she fear her own inability, but she also felt ashamed for not demanding such important answers from him.

By the time the first truth could no longer be ignored, the others followed, cascading over her in a torrent of relentless thought that paralyzed her.

Even if he found her after his escape, the bounty hunters might yet search the area. If he was right that the storm would force them to return to port before their hideaway was discovered, then she and he would have to survive that storm in this tiny boat. And they couldn't simply hide in this spot for the duration; otherwise, they risked the cutter returning after the storm and capturing them. 

In the best case scenario, they must row through a tempest to survive.

How did things come to this? How did she let herself get stuck between capture by bounty hunters and being set upon by a furious storm? For a very, very long time, she sat in that boat and cursed herself, for her folly had not only brought this upon herself but Graham as well.

She lost all hope when the sky suddenly darkened and the wind began to screech through the stones. It had been hours, and he hadn't come. Either the bounty hunters had him, or he had drown. Tears rolled down her cheeks, smarting with the harsh lashes of the wind.

The Fugitive was so wrapped up in her misery that she didn't hear the splashing and swishing that hailed the arrival of another. In fact, she didn't notice Graham until his hand reached up and grabbed the edge of the boat.

She nearly screamed, but luckily, it came out as nothing more than a ragged gasp.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said as he pulled himself onto the tiny ledge of rock beside the boat.

He was shivering and dripping wet, the curls of his hair doused so they were flat, but he was otherwise the picture of health.

"I found your present," he said, waving the buoy and waterskin. "Thanks for that. I must've gone around this place three, four times before I saw it. Could you spare a cloth?"

The abrupt question snapped her out of her stupor, and she handed him the rags she used to cover her head before she began searching for any other dry materials.

"Back there," he said, pointing to the stern of the ship. "You didn't capsize before arriving, did you?"

He gave her this stunning smile that she'd never seen before. He seemed oddly unmoved by the fact that he was dripping wet, stranded in the ocean, and directly in the path of an oncoming storm.

She turned and searched the stern, and sure enough, he had tied down a small package. A fine mist of moisture had collected while she rowed, for the waves tipped the boat this way and that as she went, but the top layer was nothing more than a large rag from the ship. Inside, there was an entire change of clothing.

"You seem surprised," he commented as she handed him the package. "You didn't think I'd plan to swim somewhere without a change of dry clothing waiting for me, did you?"

"No, I guess not," she replied.

Those were the first words she uttered to him since they parted, but what she really wanted to say was, _Don't ever leave me like that again._

Braced against the wall of rock, tiptoes on the sliver of shore, he did his best to dry off, and when she noticed the rags had been used up and he was still dripping, she made to offer him her scarf and jacket.

"You'll be needing those yet," he protested. "My hair's dry. I can handle the rest, but..."

"What do you need?" she asked. "Anything."

"Well, I'm about to strip," he said. "Normally, I'd have no regrets, but a man never wants a lady staring at him when he looks like a drowned rat."

She obliged him, for though she had always enjoyed his nude form, she understood his desire not be seen so... compromised.

It took longer than she expected. She had to fight the urge to turn around every time the wind blew. She could hear his teeth chattering, pressing her to grip his dry attire even more tightly. But then he requested his trousers and boxers, which she handed to him without looking. Moments later, he stepped into the boat and sat on the stern-side plank.

Assuming that he was dressed enough for her viewing, she turned to him, and his beautiful eyes fell on her, gleaming with a combination of desire and awe.

"Look at you, Emma Swan," he said. "You did it."

"You did it," she replied. "It was all you, Graham. The escape, your plan..."

She handed him his shirt because she hated to see him shiver, but the very last thing she wanted him to do was put his clothing back on. When he leaned in to take his shirt, she swiftly closed in and kissed him, their lips entangled in a sweet and thrilling touch that warmed every part of her.

"I'm glad you're here," she said quietly.

"I told you I'd find you," he replied as he dressed. "The good news is that the cutter went due east after boarding _The Golden Swan_. The bad news: they took the vessel, the storm will start soon, and - "

"We have to row through the storm," she interrupted.

"Yes," he said. "But we've come this far. You're going to make it because you are the Savior."

The Accomplice said the word, hoping it would remind her of who she was, but she gave him a confused look that told him otherwise.

"You mean _we_ will make it," she said.

"Yes, we will," he said solemnly.

He had hoped that her memories would return once she faced her fear of the ocean, but that didn't seem to be happening. Though he wanted to speak with Emma - the real Emma, the one he knew back in Storybrooke - he didn't have time to wish and wonder over it.

The storm was coming.

After Graham the Accomplice hastily inspected the gig, he talked the Fugitive through several key preparations, including tying in the oars. No doubt she assumed his haste a byproduct of the gathering winds, but in truth, he wasn't rushing on account of the storm, as he was waiting for the sky to overcast completely to conceal their departure. No, his hurriedness came from a desire to eliminate all distractions, that he might finally have a chance to remind the Fugitive who she was, while still providing them a chance at a future beyond the tempest.

As luck would have it, however, the time to depart their hiding place came on the heels of their readiness. He had planned to take the buoys and wet clothing with them, tying it down for safe keeping, but there wasn't time to waste on unnecessary stock, for the clouds consumed the sky as soon as he took seat for rowing.

She sat on the stern-side plank, facing him, which was the single boon of the tiny vessel. No mater how much she did not wish to hear the words he spoke, she would have no recourse but to listen. He knew that it could all go horribly wrong - she could shut down or reject him and his story as nonsense, insanity - but he couldn't withhold the truth. Not from her.

The wind bit at their faces as they exited the enclosure, and navigating the dangerous waters ate the first few hours with halted conversations and abrupt warnings. Mercifully, there was nothing more than harsh wind and a few pelts of rain, so they trekked northward at a solid pace, finally increasing their speed when they passed into open waters. 

The tempest grew, so Graham spoke before they no longer had the means to hear one another.

"Do you remember anything?" he asked abruptly. "I mean, anything from before. From - "

"A past life?" she asked, completing his thought. "Like the one you remember with the wolves?"

His mouth went dry with anticipation. He nodded his head, yes, and over the din of the rising storm, he heard a long, rolling howl.

"Did you hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what? I can barely hear you!"

Graham felt something deep in his bones rally, its power taking seat in his heart. Courage and passion burned hot in his chest.

"Listen to me," he said, raising his voice. "This past life I told you about, it's not a past life. It's not reincarnation or anything like that, Emma. I looked just like this and spoke just as I do now. In that other life, I lived in two different realms. Misthaven, where I was born and lived until the day a terrible curse was cast. It took nearly everyone to another land, another realm, and time stopped, our lives became frozen. Only we didn't know it. In my old life, I didn't have a family or friends. Just the wolves. I was a Huntsman and that was enough for me."

"You're not making any sense!" she said, putting her hand on his thigh.

He didn't let that distract him.

"Please, Emma, you have to listen to me," he replied. "A powerful woman - she was a queen and a sorceress - called upon me. She ordered me to kill her stepdaughter and cut out her heart, and I aimed to do it. But then the young woman... she surprised me in a way that people never did back then. She showed me that she cared for others more than she did herself. So I let her go and killed a stag instead, cutting out its heart and taking it back to the queen as proof. She wasn't fooled, and she enslaved me by taking my heart, that I would never have a will of my own nor feel anything ever again."

"Snow White," she said loudly.

"You remember?" he asked. "You remember your mother?"

"Graham, please," she replied. "My mother is the Judge - born Eva Truenorth, married as Eva Swan - and she read bedtime stories to me, including Snow White. That's the one you're telling, isn't it? Snow White and the Huntsman."

"No, I'm not!" he shouted, his frustration getting the better of him. "It's not familiar to you because someone read it to you a few times when you were young. You remember it because it's a very important story. Your heart is trying to remind you who you are. Snow White is your mother, and a very long time ago, before you were born, I risked everything to save her because she was a good person who deserved to live."

"Graham - "

"Emma, please," he interrupted. "I know it doesn't make any sense, but soon the storm will be so loud that you won't hear half the words I say, so let me speak. After the curse, I was made a new man. I had no memories of who I truly was. Nobody did. I thought I was just a sheriff of a town called Storybrooke, and for a long time I didn't feel anything but unhappy, and I had no idea why. I couldn't feel because that witch still had my heart, only now I was in a land where that kind of thing was impossible, where magic didn't exist. For nearly thirty years, I was this shell, this husk of myself with no way to make it right. And then you came into my life, Emma, and you changed everything."

"We met in school," she said. "Don't you remember that?"

"Yes, I do, but it's not real, Emma," he explained. "None of this is real. Somehow, you and I have gotten caught up in another curse, one that takes our memories and makes us different people. Makes us forget who we really are. I know because it's happened before, only last time, you were the Savior. You came to Storybrooke, and memories started to return along with hope, and not just mine. You saved me. I need you to remember that, Emma."

"I know this is important to you," she replied. "But I have no idea what you're talking about! What scares me is that you really believe it."

"The faceless people," he pressed on. "You said you saw them in your dreams and memories. The people who aren't people."

"I did!" she replied. "But that doesn't mean we shared a past life together, Graham."

"Not a past life," he repeated. "This life. Real life. Wherever we are now, Emma, it's not life. It's a curse. Where we come from, you have magic," he said. "Powerful magic. You are the Savior, and whatever cursed land we might be in today, you are still the Savior. You can break this curse, Emma. You have to!"

Thunder exploded above them, echoing of the waves.

"Look, we'll figure this all out!" she shouted. "But first, let's get out of this storm!"

That was when he saw the wolf walking across water. 

Graham - not the Accomplice or the Bailiff or the Huntsman, but Graham - knew that this vessel wouldn't weather the tempest, let alone carry two passengers to safety. Their combined weight made it too low to the water to outlast the wind and rain.

CRASH!

He bit his tongue as the boat jolted forward, its momentum stopped by a large rock. He automatically tightened his grip on the oars, forgetting they were tied in, so he had no means to halt his forward momentum as his head crashed into the bow of the ship. Soon the pain radiating from his tongue felt like nothing compared to the splitting, raging ache from the back of his head.

"Where the hell did that come from?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

"Take the oars," he grunted. 

He didn't want to lie to her, but Emma's concerned stare didn't waver from his face. She reached out to help him instead of taking the oars. So he lied and hoped that the storm distracted her too much to notice.

"Emma, I'm fine," he said quickly. "I need you to take the oars, maybe take over for a spell."

She grabbed both oars and tucked them in tight. Once his hands were free, one instinctively went to his head, and he felt the blood on his scalp. He turned his head to look at the rock that the vessel had struck, wondering how both he and Emma missed it. There was no visible sign of damage to the boat beyond an impact mark, but he doubted it could handle another hard impact.

Or was he thinking about his own injury?

That thought was soon forgotten as the shadowy wolf came closer, walking over the water like it was solid ground.

"Graham? Graham!" Emma shouted over the din of the wind. "Are you all right?"

"We've got to get around this rock," he replied, avoiding the question.

"Tell me what to do."

"It's bigger than it seems," he said. It wasn't entirely a lie. "I'm going to get out of the boat and stand on it. You row. I'll guide the boat 'round it to the other side, then you paddle hard due north."

"Okay, okay," she replied.

"Hold her steady for me."

She tucked one paddle inside and used the other to brace them against a rock. A particularly violent wave chose that moment to douse them, spilling a small puddle into the ship. Once he was on the rock, she put the second oar inside next to her.

"Bail out the water!" he yelled. "I'll get you around the rock."

The Fugitive focused on completing her task. She got caught up in emptying the water with a tiny cup-sized bail. She was too occupied to notice that something was very wrong.

She knew he had lied, so she was aware that his injury was worse than he let on. Why else would he want her to take over rowing? But she had no idea - and indeed, no way yet to know - what would come next.

"Emma Swan!" he said loudly as he swung the boat around the rock. "I know you don't understand, but I have to go now. That howling? They're calling me home. I'm finally going. All because you reminded me who I am. Again."

"Graham?" she responded, confused. "What are you talking about? Get back in the boat!"

"You are no fugitive," he replied. "And you're so much more than a survivor. You're - go! Go now before it it's too late!"

Graham couldn't handle a longer farewell, so as the waves rolled away from him, he put every ounce of his strength into shoving the boat forward. The wave wasn't large, but it was enough to carry her away while she struggled to gain control over the vessel.

"Graham! GRAHAM!" she screamed.

She kept shouting his name, trying to get his attention, but he turned away from her toward the wolf that awaited him. Its feet remained steady and undisturbed by the waves, though the rain had doused its coat, its proud canine eyes - one black, one red - remain warmer than all the days of summer. He blinked, and the wolf disappeared, inspiring a moment of panic. 

But then he looked down in and saw his own face in the water, even though the storm had whipped the sea into a frenzy such that no reflection could be seen, even if there had been light enough to see it. He blinked again, and his reflection vanished, replaced by the howling wolf, who was now beneath the waves.

"Graham! Graham! Graham!"

"Goodbye Emma Swan," he whispered. "I love you."

Between the wind and waves, his whisper was swallowed up, but some things - things of the spirit - were important enough that the words required neither voice nor paper to traverse the space between two people and touch one another's hearts. And the last words of the Huntsman were one such message, so though she could not hear him, she felt his words deeply, down to the bone, where memory never fades.

And with that message, she saw fleeting images of Graham wearing a sheriff's badge, him offering her pastries in exchange for a shift.

She dismissed them as she fumbled with the oars, gasping as the rush came upon her. She couldn't explain it, but it felt wonderful. She had already turned the boat around, and now she paddled harder, more determined than ever to return to him. 

She looked over her shoulder to see how much farther she had to go, and in that instant, Graham dove head first into the raging sea, vanishing beneath the waves with the faintest splash. And then there was nothing. No bubbles, no disturbance, nothing to indicate that he had been there only moments ago.

She rowed recklessly, nearly crashing into the same rock, and she leaned over the side, trying to see where he'd gone. A man didn't simply sink to the bottom of the ocean once he jumped in, not even a dead man.

_No, no, no, no, no... he's not dead. He can't be dead. Not again. Not again!_

The thought didn't seem strange to her at the time, though it would occur to her later that never before had she thought Graham - or the Accomplice or the Bailiff - dead or mortally wounded in all the time she knew him.

She paddled in circles, desperate for any sign of him, but as if the storm were a sentient creature that despised her and actively acted against her, the winds picked up, and the waves pushed her away. Soon she could barely tell which direction was north, and she had no way of knowing where Graham had leapt into the water. 

All she knew at that moment was that the ocean had swallowed up a good man, a man she had just started to love, and that alone was enough to crush her heart and scatter it in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermes was a Greek deity who acted an emissary of the gods. He was sometimes seen as a psychopomp, guiding the souls of the dead into the afterlife.


	18. Between Ares and Athena

The Survivor withdrew for an early evening, but the Keeper nevertheless waited for her to attend supper. It was only after he realized that she might be waiting on his leave to eat that he gave up his vigil and retired to his chamber for the night.

Three months ago, he had spoken to the ghost of his brother, and some ancient, other life had been revealed. He had been shown a doorway, a path, yet he abandoned it by inaction. 

True, the Keeper had been moved to protect the Survivor, but after the events with the Dockmaster and the Lawmaster, things continued in their natural course. He allowed himself to get caught up in training the Survivor as Second Keeper and enjoying her company when he should've been concerned with his brother's warnings. Since that day, he hadn't seen another specter, not even under the full moon. Perhaps that respite was what afforded him comfort that led to his stupidity and complacency. 

Liam had reached out to him for a _reason_ , long before the Survivor arrived. What else had his brother hoped to impart? Did his idleness somehow draw the Stormbringer hence? Though he didn't know the monster, he was certain that they had known each other before, and whoever the Tyrant had been then was just as vile as he was today. 

He paced as he thought. The day's events crushed the Survivor's spirit, but perhaps a night of reflection would give her strength. He could appeal to the side of her that swam through a storm for her life, that struck the Dockmaster with a oar, that stood strong and spoke to specters. He had to convince her that even the Stormbringer could be defeated.

Brutes flourished in this world, and the Keeper knew that some were terrifying beasts of the mythic times of old, descendants or minions of deities who had power beyond the measure of mortal souls. But not one of them - man or beast, deity or demon - lived without the possibility of defeat, and there had yet to be a creature in this world that bled but never yielded to death. Whatever the Stormbringer's power, he had a weakness. If he truly was immortal, then there must be a way to contain him and keep him apart from those in this life.

He recollected something of the Stormbringer's face, but he couldn't place it. Perhaps the means of him did not lie in this life, but in the past life he struggled to recall.

It was not the enlightenment that he had hoped for, as he no longer had any means by which to speak with Liam.

He stopped in his tracks. His brother had mentioned the other spirits, but the Keeper hadn't thought on it. Liam had specifically mentioned that those ghosts had come to help him. What if they had yet to move on? He needed only to remember them as he did his brother to conjure them into this life.

He focused on their shadowy vespers, but he could not recall who they had been to him. One was a woman, and the other a man, but that was all he knew with certainty.

In the past, they had appeared to him most clearly on the roof, so he ascended. He spent hours trying to imagine them, trying to speak with them, but neither phantom appeared. The Keeper began to question his own abilities as his resolve faded. 

No, that wasn't right. Whoever these other people were, they had a connection to the Keeper - no, to Killian Jones.

 _The bloody tonic_ , he thought.

The Survivor had slipped some concoction into his tea that revealed the false, faceless people in this life. That was what allowed him to see and speak to his brother after all these years.

Though frustrated and concerned, the Keeper descended to his bedroom for the night. They had six more nights and whatever the brew the Survivor had given him, she could recreate on his behalf.

He would find a way to help her.

And with that resolution burning brightly in his mind, he fell asleep.

* * *

The atmosphere was oppressive. The thicket of jungle had the heavy heat from the sun's rays with only scraps of its light for illumination. The undergrowth grabbed at her ankles and forearms as she pushed ahead. She had to keep going, or...

She couldn't remember why. She stopped in her tracks. What was she doing here? When did she arrive in the jungle? How did she get here?

She was inside a cavern, and the sound of the ocean caught her attention. It was just as hot, but the breeze and the shade made it bearable. There were others beside her, but her eyes fell upon two young boys who stood together near an enormous hour glass. The one who seemed slightly older wore old-fashion clothing, a belted tunic over trousers that seemed cut from the same material. The other boy was younger, and his attire suggested wealth, though it was so foreign to her that she couldn't be certain. His shirt was buttoned and had a rich array of colors to complement the red and the black. His trousers, on the other hand, were a shade of blue that she'd never seen a garment carry before.

They were both familiar to her. The younger boy had kind brown eyes that matched his head of brown hair; the older boy had sandy-brown hair and green eyes. For all appearances, they shared a camaraderie, yet something was amiss. Something terrible was about to happen, and the older boy...

No, he wasn't a boy at all. He was a monster. He was - 

The Survivor woke up abruptly. Usually startled awakenings left her heart beating hard in her chest and sweat on her brow, but this time she felt normal, as if she hadn't just had a terrifying nightmare.

In truth, the contents of the dream did not merit it a nightmare. Walking through a hot jungle was uncomfortable, but there was nothing to fear. At least, she didn't remember being afraid. And the cavern wasn't particularly frightful. There was a surprising lack of ghouls and dragons, the likes of which oft plagued her dreams. There had been other people - two that flanked her who she didn't see properly - and two boys.

The brown-haired boy was very familiar to her. She pictured his face again, and that alone was enough to spark the sensation of a connection. This wasn't one of the kids who grew up down the street from her or some distant relation. So why couldn’t she recall his name?

Was he a younger version of someone she knew? He had nothing like her four faceless brothers, all of whom had raven locks that matched their obsidian eyes. His hair wasn't curly enough to be Graham, and he looked nothing at all like Walsh. Yet, he reminded her of _someone_.

_The Locksmith._

Her mental images of him were all fuzzy and vague, for he had been aboard _The Yellow Bug_. Had the brown-haired boy been on the ship, too? Was that why she couldn't remember about him?

Frustration forced her to turn her attention to the other boy, the one in the old-fashioned clothing. Perhaps his identity could shed some light. Usually her nightmares had giant slugs, demonic dogs, or one of the few criminals that managed to skirt justice on her watch. Every nightmare had at least one monster, and this one had the sandy-haired boy. What was it about him that made her skin crawl?

As for his name, the only thing she could come up with was 'Pan.'

It was ludicrous. Pan was an ancient and powerful faun, a deity or at least a demigod, yet as soon as she thought the name, no other suited him better. For this Pan was no child, but instead a sinister beast, down to his very round ears sticking out on either side of his head.

She blinked for a moment, for unless she was mistaken, the face of not-a-boy Pan was exactly the same as that of the Stormbringer.

She dismissed it entirely. She had only caught a glimpse of the Stormbringer at an awkward angle from above. Perhaps they shared a passing resemblance in their style of hair that was unflattering to their ears, but it was nothing more than that.

The Survivor wondered why she wasn't more scared. The Chamberlain stated in no uncertain terms that the Stormbringer would make her life a perpetual purgatory if not an outright, tumultuous hell with no escape. The prospect terrified her, but all she could truly feel was a deep-seeded dread and hopelessness that sapped her of her strength. A part of herself was resigned to the idea that she would be leaving Stagrock in six days forever, one way or another.

Normally, her only reaction would be complete resistant; everything inside her would band together, summoning every ounce of strength she had so she could push back. She'd devise a plan, no matter how impossible, and find a way forward. Yet even though the Keeper passionately spoke of fighting back together, she couldn't muster an iota of that fire within.

The Chamberlain knew her family, and there was no reason to suspect that the wrath of the Stormbringer would fail to reach the Midlands. In her dreams, all four of her siblings were faceless, yet she'd never wish harm upon them, even if they were but figments. Her parents, Eva and Leopold Swan, had faces as true as her own, and they loved all their children deeply.

And the Survivor loved them too much to risk their lives. That left two options: accept her fate with the Stormbringer or defeat him forevermore. 

With that thought, she got out of bed and dressed. She was unsurprised when she saw the Keeper waiting for her in the living room, shirking his early morning duties. While she had no desire to have the conversation she knew he would press, there was no way to avoid it, so she decided to get it over as swiftly as possible.

She collected her breakfast - fruit, cheese, and bread - and joined him in the living room, where he had set out the tea tray.

"Do you remember that tonic you gave me?" he asked without so much as a 'good morning' or 'hello.'

* * *

The Keeper convinced the Survivor to brew the tonic without too much explanation. They both agreed there was something familiar about the Stormbringer, and the festering mystery was reason enough. He could tell that something had gotten under her skin, and he cursed himself again for allowing that sneak of a Chamberlain to slip by him and get to her like that.

"You said you knew the Chamberlain?" the Keeper inquired.

"He was my Second Deputy," she replied. "He worked under me in New Brook."

"I take it you two weren't fast friends?"

"Actually, we got along mostly," she replied. "He wasn't the most brilliant officer, but he was a solid cop. He kept his head in dangerous situations. Very by the book. The only trouble I ever had with him was during a missing person's case. He took every setback personally, like it was his father we were looking for."

"Did he know the missing man?" 

"No, they'd never met before," she replied. "He kept insisting that the man was dead, that we should be looking for a body, because what kind of man would leave his son without a father? But this guy's son was an adult with a wife and kids and everything. It's not like he abandoned a child that depended on him. I told him as much, and that got him to shut up about it for a bit. But then he lost his temper with a witness and had to be taken off the case. When we found the guy - he was on a drinking binge for his birthday, apparently, which was two weeks away - the Second Deputy apologized for his behavior. And that was that. Never had another incident. Hardly even had a disagreement."

"Yet he abandoned his post and took up with the Tyrant of Northedge," the Keeper said. "That seems like rather more than a disagreeable relationship."

"He was friends with the Barkeep," she replied. "And the Locksmith, too. He was the one who introduced us, I think. So when people started saying I was responsible for his death, he wanted me to pay for it. And after the Barkeep... He's angry."

"Aye, but there's a difference between anger and aiding a maniac like the Stormbringer."

"He thinks I got away with everything," she replied. "It's not enough that I've lost my title, all my family, my friends... everything and everyone. As far as he's concerned, the fact that I am alive and free is an injustice. Since he can't drag me back to the Midlands for punishment, he found a way to make my life even more miserable than it would be in prison."

"You say all this as if it makes sense," he said.

"It's not like I expected it," she replied, getting to her feet. "The Second Deputy wasn't a bad guy before. But now he's lost people and it's messed him up."

"You know you're not responsible," he said. "You do know that, don't you?"

"I didn't kill the Locksmith," she said firmly. "He died in a shipwreck during a storm no one saw coming. There was nothing I could do. That wasn't my fault. But the Barkeep? I killed him."

"To protect someone else," he said. "You did it to save a man's life. Is that not what a Sheriff does?"

"I wasn't Sheriff then."

"You didn't know that."

She nodded and sat back down, her head heavy and her shoulders dropping. Everything was taking its toll, draining her of energy, voiding every hope in her heart.

The Keeper decided it was best to distract her from it. He downed the tonic and tea quickly, hoping to accelerate its effects.

The Survivor didn't oppose the idea, but she doubted that it would provide any insight on defeating the Stormbringer. Yet, the Keeper's words galvanized her and so gave her the strength to reach for something more, something better. So she followed his lead, consuming the brew in a few quick gulps.

Once her cup was empty, however, doubt returned. Slowly, every single thing the Keeper had said was plucked away, leaving only the looming shadow of her barren and painful future.

What was she playing at? Her life had ended when she murdered Walsh. Had she accepted that when it happened, Graham would still be alive. Instead, his body was lost to the ocean, and now the lives of the Keeper and her family were on the line. All because of her.

"Did you remember something?" the Keeper asked, mistaking her musing for memory. 

"No," she replied tersely. 

"You said you saw all the faceless people of this life," he prompted. "I did, too, but I also began to remember another time. Another life. Here, my brother was faceless, even when we were children, and every moment I had with him in this land was nothing but a strange tale."

"Let me guess, you where in a place called Misthaven but then got cursed to a place called Storybrooke," the Survivor said, her voice callous and clipped.

"Neither of those names sound familiar to me," he admitted.

"What does it matter?" she asked. "People who are imaginary and past lives. So what? How does that help with the Stormbringer?"

"Perhaps we knew of his weakness in this other life."

"Even if we did, it was another life," she pointed out. "How would we know if it was the same in this one?"

The Keeper heard the impatience in her voice over the sarcasm and the anger. He wasn't certain why she was reacting this way, so he took care with his words and measured his reply.

"Surely there is a reason," he replied. "My brother said - in no uncertain terms - that only one of these lives was genuine, and as he had no face in this life, it's quite clear which one is real."

"You think none of this is real?" she repeated, her brow furrowed.

"I know that I lived another life with my brother," he said. "Yet I had no knowledge of that until I drank this tonic for the first time. I know that I was haunted by specters until I laid eyes upon my brother - my _real_ brother."

"your real brother," she repeated stubbornly. "You mean your real brother, the ghost?"

The Keeper cursed himself. He had told her that those haunting him had gone and not returned when she inquired about it on the next full moon, but he hadn't disclosed the conversation with Liam. It wasn't exactly a secret, but he hadn't been ready to share it nor to discuss its implications. Now he probably sounded like a madman babbling on about voices in his head and visions of dead family members.

"He appeared how he always had," the Keeper explained. "The way you saw him in the moonlight, but that time - the last time - I could see his eyes. That's how I recognized him. We talked for the better part of the night, but when the dawn came, it was his time - his time to move on. He had done what he needed to do."

The Survivor trusted the Keeper. He was an honorable man by all accounts, and there was no reason for mistrust or skepticism on her part. He spoke the truth - or at least what he believed to be the truth - yet the things he said jabbed at something deep within that resisted every inch of it.

 _He sounds like Graham did during the storm_ , she thought. _He's talking like Graham did right before he killed himself._

For while the Survivor knew that Graham had hit his head, she had had no reason to believe it was a mortal wound. In her mind, if he had returned to the boat, they would've made it through the storm together. She often wondered if she could've saved him from his fate if she had only cottoned on those little changes sooner. How long had he planned to kill himself that night? He seemed so desperate to impart information to her as if he knew he was running out of time.

Perhaps that was merely hindsight. 

That last day with him was a blur of moments that didn't quite connect, and there was only one thing of which she could be certain: she missed him. He was dead because she failed to save him, because she failed to notice when a man she was incredibly close to began to act like he was on his deathbed.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she felt about her role in Graham's death. She had failed him, and she wouldn't let that happen again.

"Did I tell you what happened to the Bailiff?" she asked. "Why he isn't here with us?"

The Keeper replied, "You told me the ocean took him during the storm."

"It didn't take him," she said. "He dove in and never came back up."

The Keeper tensed, for he sensed the conversation had taken a very sharp turn. He wanted to convince her that there was yet hope, but if anything, despair seemed to have an even stronger hold on her.

"He had been talking about his other life," she explained. "In the middle of a storm while we were on this tiny, tiny boat and nearly drowning. I told him we could talk about it once we survived this, but he thought it was too important to wait. We hit this big rock, and he got out to maneuver the ship around it. He was supposed to get us around the rock and get back in, but instead he... he shoved me away. Then he dove into the water. By the time I turned the boat around, he was gone."

"And you believe he died - "

She interrupted, "He didn't _die_. He killed himself."

"You think he did it because of this other life?"

"Graham would never kill himself," she said. "Not in this life, but as soon as he 'remembered' that other life, he let the ocean take him. He could've survived, if he just had chosen to try."

"And you fear I am on the same path?" the Keeper asked.

"Something like that," she replied. "I should never have given you that tonic. A couple of ghosts aren't worth your life."

The Keeper went to the window and looked out over the water. Were one of his ghostly companions to appear, the Survivor could hardly deny the voracity of his claim. But in order to seek them, he needed to know who these spirits were.

His first thought was his parents, though he never met his mother in either life. He dismissed the idea immediately, for he much doubted that his father would show the same devotion as his brother. Who else would care enough about him to reach out to him from beyond the grave? The names that occurred to him were naught but old enemies, for stories of spirits tormenting the living always involved betrayal and hatred. But Liam did not fit that mold, so why would his other haunts?

One of them was a woman, perhaps a wife or a lover from his past life. He closed his eyes and pictured her.

A rush of heat hit his face and neck as his eyes snapped open. The image he had conjured was of a golden-haired beauty with jade orbs for eyes that rivaled Aphrodite in her splendor. She wore a hide jacket that was dyed an obscene red that stood out against the color of her cheeks. It was an alarmingly attractive version of the Survivor, and he forced himself to avert his eyes to avoid comparing the two. He couldn't afford the distraction.

He focused on the hide jacket. It had something of the texture of leather, despite the color, and it sparked a memory him. He again closed his eyes and imagined someone he loved and lost, just as he lost his brother. A woman with a penchant for leather and swords. Yes, she was a fighter and a beauty, and her eyes were green. Not jade, though, but blue-green hazel, and they complemented her dark brown hair. Her smile was disarming, and when he pictured her, she was aboard a beautiful ship. One that was deeply familiar, and - 

Crash!

His eyes snapped open at the sound of the tea tray falling to the floor, with its many cups and utensils adding a furious clatter as they scattered.

The Survivor had left her seat in a moment of surprise, completely unaware of the tray's proximity to her knee. The abrupt pain forced her back to her seat as the tray simultaneously flipped off the table. 

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded as she rose properly to her feet. "And where did you come from?"

The Keeper was first drawn to the tray, then to the Survivor, who had a furious kind of confusion on her face, and from there he followed her line of sight to the woman he had loved and lost. Her long brown hair fell in curls over her shoulders, and her figure and frame radiated energy and light, obscuring the fact that she was not as opaque as the other two occupants in the room.

"Milah," he said.

He had not been able to recall her name moments ago, but now that he had spoken it, there was no doubt in his mind.

"Killian?" Milah asked. "You can see me?"

"You know her?" the Survivor demanded.

"Aye," he replied to both of them.

Milah, whether from foreknowledge or simple intuition, noticed the Survivor's state of confusion and thought best to illustrate her condition as plainly as possible. With a tempered step, she approached the other woman, stretched out her hand, and motioned to grab her arm. Rather than making contact, however, the Phantom's hand passed straight through.

"Like Liam, she has..." he fumbled for the right expression. "Passed on."

"I'm hardly the only one," Milah retorted.

"I - uh, you're different than - before," the Survivor replied. "It was all whispers and pale shimmering, but - "

"I'm not meant to be here," Milah interrupted. "I wanted to help Killian, so I followed his brother and, like him, became trapped."

"I remember you," the Keeper muttered, his heart wavering between slow, steady beats and euphoric flickering. "We sailed together."

She passed the Survivor and made her way over to the Keeper, who was still by the window. Though she could not touch him, she cast her hand over his forehead and down his cheek, as if she had caressed him thus so much in life that her spirit still knew the motion by heart. 

"We did far more than that," she replied with a sad smile. "You don't belong here, my love. Neither of you do. But the only way to be free of this place is to remember who you are."

"What do you know about the Stormbringer?" the Survivor asked abruptly, breaking the phantom and the Keeper apart. "Can you tell us anything about him?"

"He's a vile thing," Milah replied. "Most who are cast into this realm like you two - they have no true memories. There are echoes, reminders, hints that drive them, but they don't realize they are at war with two halves of themselves. One true, one cursed."

"Cursed," the Survivor repeated. "Graham used that word before he died."

Milah continued, "There are a few people here without illusions. Most wind up like Liam and I, trapped in the amber of this world, our memories of no use. But there are others who take up a mantle in this world with full knowledge of this place and their true identity. In our world, the man you speak of was called Peter Pan, a violent and hateful creature that paraded himself as a boy. When he died, he became even more vindictive, and he desperately sought power in other planes. Somehow, he convinced whatever authority that controls this place to cast him into this world with a powerful mantle. Here he is an invincible titan that long ago was called Antaeus."

"Titan?" the Keeper repeated in disbelief. "I take it you're not referring to a mere giant but the proto-deities that ruled the world before the reign of Mount Olympus?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Milah replied. "He went to great lengths to conceal his identity in this world, so it must reveal some kind of weakness."

"Antaeus wasn't invincible," the Survivor said. "He was defeated by Heracles. That's how he died."

"Do you remember how?" the Keeper asked.

The Survivor struggled to think clearly under the effects of emotional whiplash. Since her conversation with the Chamberlain, her mind had been oscillating between hopelessness and fury, each interval a frenzy of self-doubt, regret, and resignation. When the Keeper so vividly reminded her of Graham's final hours, her only thought was to extinguish all notion of any past lives and black out those memories that they might never take another loved one from her. It was neither doubt nor anger that made her question his resolution but rather the rippling tremors of her own inner demons, reminding her of her every failure.

But the arrival of the Phantom - and indeed, there was nothing else that a spirit without body could be - and the sureness with which she spoke made the Survivor question herself. While she wasn't sure she could believe that they had forgotten their true selves while living in a cursed world, she could accept that saving the Keeper didn't require him to sacrifice the belief in those other memories. Unlike both her and Graham, the Keeper had a literal manifestation of this past, one that he could speak with and see.

And he had every right to a few moments alone with her, for if it was true that his brother could no longer return after finally speaking face to face, perhaps the same would hold true for the Phantom. So while she knew the story of Antaeus and Heracles by heart, she also saw the opportunity to allow a good man a chance to say goodbye to someone he had lost.

"Upstairs, there's a book," she lied. "It has all the adventures of Heracles. I'll go get it."

She left the living room in a rush, ascending the stairs rapidly, her footfall heavy as she went.

Milah and the Keeper watched her disappear up the spiral staircase before they turned back to one another.

"Milah," the Keeper said. "When we sailed together - "

"We were together," she interrupted. "You rescued me."

"I took you from your family," he said, his face falling as the memories began to return to him. The next words were spoken with a mix of hatred and confusion. "I was a pirate?"

"We were," she replied. "You were a pirate and an honorable man. I tried to make it work with my husband for years, but when I finally accepted that there was no life there for me, I asked you to take me with you. We loved one another, Killian. I wouldn't lie to you about this, you know that. You are a good man and a pirate."

"A pirate cannot be a good man," he replied. "It's not possible."

"I told you," she said. "This place puts you at war with yourself. It's made you hate pirates so deeply that you can't accept that you are a pirate, Killian."

"How can you say that with pride?" he asked. "Don't you know what pirates are? What they do?"

"I learned from the best," she said with a smile. "Don't you remember showing me how to wield a sword?"

He nodded his head, but he felt as if he were being torn asunder. He had stolen a ship and sailed under the jolly roger, plundering treasures and leaving burning ships in his wake.

Bloody hell, he hadn't just been a pirate. He'd been a pirate captain, the same crime for which his brother was shamed and executed in this realm.

"You weren't just any pirate, Killian Jones," Milah said when he did not reply. "Even before we met, you were the terror of the seas, taking on an evil king - the man to whom you had sworn fealty - after he tried to win a war by poisoning an entire kingdom. After I died, you swore vengeance upon the monster that killed me, and the terror of the seas became the most infamous pirate in all the realms, a hard-hearted blackguard who had no fear of taking on the immortal demon known as the Dark One."

"The Crocodile," he whispered. "He took my hand, and the better part of my heart. I'm not the stronger for it, Milah. What can I do against an invincible titan? No matter who I am - who I was - I am hardly the likes of Heracles."

Her smile radiated throughout her body, making her clearer to him in this life than she ever had been before. Then her hand caressed his cheek, and he felt her touch - her very real, very solid touch. Then her lips were on his, soft and brittle like the wind. She had neither scent nor taste, yet his faculties conjured up the memories of their past passions, the thousands upon thousands of kisses that they shared, and he felt everything at once. The desire, the passion, the intimacy, the entanglement, the forgiveness, the desperation, the hope, the love, and the future they never had together. For of all the things that the Keeper felt, the strongest, most potent of them all was a deep, abiding loss. It blew on the ember of rage within him till it burned so bright it eclipsed his helplessness and his doubts.

Milah stepped back, releasing him, and began to fade away. 

"No, Milah, wait!" Killian pleaded. "Don't go."

"You think you can't achieve the same as Heracles?" she asked. "I know that that man would've met his match in Captain Hook."

Those were the last words she said before she vanished in a glimmer of light, leaving nothing behind but the freshly broken heart of Killian Jones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athena was the goddess of many things, including wisdom, courage, and strategies of war. Her brother Ares was known as the deity of war, but unlike his sister, he represented the untamed violence and brutality of battle.


	19. By the Forge of Hephaestus

The Survivor waited upstairs for what she thought was a reasonable amount of time. She took care descending the stairway, listening intently for any sign that the Phantom still lingered. She found the Keeper seated by the window, bleakly staring out, though from the look on his face, he saw non e of the world before him.

"Is she gone?" she asked cautiously. 

"Aye."

"I'm sorry."

"Did you find the book?" he asked. "Do you know how to defeat Antaeus?"

"Uh, yes," she replied, though she had not through to bring the book with her. "His mother is Gaia, so as long as he touches the earth, he draws on her strength and power. He challenged his opponents to wrestling matches, and none could defeat him by pinning him or throwing him because his mother always restored him. Heracles held him up and crushed his neck, choking him to death."

"I very much doubt we'll be able to lift the Stormbringer," the Keeper replied. "Let alone keep him from the ground."

"Not with our bare hands," the Survivor replied. "But we know he'll be traveling back to Stagrock, where there is little earth to save him."

"Aye, with a crew of soldiers," he replied. 

"But it's only the Chamberlain that we need to worry about," she said. "Something tells me that the Stormbringer doesn't treat his soldiers very well. The Chamberlain is the only person who serves him willingly. You'll need to distract him."

"Not ten minutes ago, you seemed willing to let that beast drag you into a world of torment," the Keeper said.

"I had some sense knocked into me by a ghost," she replied. "Anyway, I'd never let that happen without a fight, even if it meant dying in the process."

"Apologies, but I can't allow that," he replied. "Perhaps you have a plan that doesn't end with us both dying horrible deaths?"

"That's the goal," she replied. "But our odds aren't good."

* * *

Over the next four days, the Keeper and the Survivor completely neglected their duties to Stagrock Light in preparation of the return of the Stormbringer. It was hardly light work, so on that last day, they did nothing but rest.

Or, they rested as best they could before a monstrous Tyrant rowed to their shore.

The Survivor had broached the subject of the Keeper's choice to help her a number of times, but each time he gave her half-truths and partial answers. Unable to recall the creature with a boy's face, Peter Pan, he channeled all the hatred and wrath he felt towards the Crocodile, the demo who killed Milah. The downside was that it eclipsed his other emotions.

The Keeper wasn't certain, but there was something inside him that told him that his love for Milah had been very, very long ago. And while it was an abiding love that never faded, the unimaginable had happened: his scars healed, his heart mended. He was left wondering if his love for another was true - and reciprocated - or if this new realm was confusing his affections for the Survivor with other older, deeper emotions.

It was freeing to set everything aside and let his wrath froth, so that on the return of the Stormbringer neither his nerve nor his heart would fail him.

In his past life, he had been well-versed with a cutlass, but he had nothing comparable at Stagrock. He found an long hunter's knife with a covered hilt, old but still sharp and tough. It was a weapon worthy of a battle, and he suspected that he'd require it to handle the Chamberlain.

He was concerned for the Survivor, for though she spoke of her plan with an air of certainty, she retired to bed before dusk that last night, having not said a word to him all day, apart from the usual salutations.

Not long after, he climbed the stairs to his chamber but he could scarcely sleep, so much did he dread the coming day. There were a few hours that passed as if he had slept, but soon he was unable to lie still, tossing and turning. Thus, he rose before dawn, and to clear his head, he went to the roof to watch the sunrise.

The Survivor was already there, standing on the eastern edge, looking out over the water. She had crafted a simple white dress from spare clothes and a few sacrificed garments. The bodice hugged her shapely form, while the sleeves and skirt had enough slack that they flowed in the wind.

To say that she was beautiful would be to blaspheme, for she was a magnificent sight for which there were yet words to describe. Her fair skin, her golden hair, even her white dress, shined under the moonlight, contrasting with the darkness of the night sky and ocean. Who was he to witness such perfection?

He floundered. The loss of Milah was still fresh and raw, and he clung to it for strength he desperately needed.

"You look lovely," he said to her. "Despite the occasion."

"You're awake," she replied. "Are you ready?"

"Not entirely," he replied. "I don't plan to face down the Stormbringer in my nightgown."

She turned to him, and though the corners of her mouth upturned slightly, it was hardly a smile.

"Will you assist with the ladder?" he requested politely.

She helped him anchor the freshly minted rope ladder to the center of the tower. He went inside and descended to the bottom parapet, and she tossed the other end of the ladder down to him. He dropped it the rest of the way, watching it unfurl till it dangled about a few feet above the ground, swaying in the wind as the sun came up.

* * *

The Stormbringer's arrival was heralded by the grunting and groaning of his rowers, for he returned in the same longboat. Though there was no obvious ceremony in his approach, he was attired in dress blacks, an outfit for formal occasions.

In fact, his entire crew was formally dressed, which was hardly clothing fit for rowing from the mainland. The Keeper saw that as a sign that the Northmost King - as he called himself - marked this day as an occasion himself. Though as far as signs went, it had far too many meanings to provide any true insight.

Before long, the boat was moored to the dock, and the Stormbringer stepped out gracelessly, a smug grin upon his face.

"I thought my pronouncement was clear," said the Stormbringer. "Yet here I stand on the seventh morning, and my prize is nowhere in sight. Is it too difficult a request to have cargo prepared by a certain hour, Keeper?"

Anger reared its ugly head, its fiery light nearly blinding the Keeper with fury. He despised the idea of people being property, and his hatred extended to those who spoke of people as such with entitlement. He schooled his features, for he could not express his feelings without putting the Tyrant on his guard.

"My apologies, Stormbringer," the Keeper said, not sorry at all. "I couldn't convince her to abandon tradition."

"The Midlands Climb?" the Stormbringer asked. "Ridiculous and wasteful. My time is more valuable than this."

Without waiting for a response, the Stormbringer took hold of the rope ladder and began his ascent. The Keeper marveled at the brilliance of the Survivor, for her plan was beautifully simple. The Midlands had an old tradition of climbing or scaling a building to prove worthiness in collecting a concubine, back when the Midlands still had such practices. In the centuries since, the tradition had evolved into a frivolous public spectacle for engagements of the rich and famous. He had worried that the Stormbringer would refuse and endanger their entire plan. He hadn't thought the Tyrant would willingly scale the lighthouse without a tirade, let alone without hesitation.

That one thing, at least, had gone right.

"Whatever you've got planned, it'll fail," the Chamberlain said.

The Keeper wondered how the man moved without disturbing the environment around him: no footfall, no creaking wood, no footprints. Nothing to indicated he was ashore until he spoke. Perhaps the man was born with natural stealth, as some animals were born with coats of concealment to hide from predators. His absolute plainness - his complete lack of noteworthy feature - complemented this inborn sneakiness.

The Keeper hated everything about him.

"You think I have a scheme?" the Keeper asked. "With no allies, no weapons, and no means of escape?"

"I wouldn't put anything past you," the Chamberlain replied. "I think of you as a kind of patron of lost causes. I mean, look at this place."

He waved his hand at the lighthouse, as if to suggested it were in a state of disrepair. The Keeper knew that the man was merely trying to raise his ire, and to that end, he certainly had selected the right topic. The Keeper was a seafaring man by trade, not a mason nor a carpenter, so the physical repair and upkeep was quite a slow process. That being said, Stagrock was hardly woebegone.

"Guess it makes sense," the Chamberlain continued. "Put a guy with one hand in charge of building repairs, and... well, what do you expect?"

The Keeper replied, "Are your words supposed to do me harm? Perhaps you've not realized that you're speaking to a man who had a hand cleaved from his wrist. Your verbal jabs are naught but wind to me."

"I'm sure," he replied. "Just like I'm sure you don't mind your little tart being carried off as a not-so-prized broodmare. All wind to you, huh?"

"Far be it for me to question the will and actions of the Stormbringer."

"You mean the Northmost King," the Chamberlain corrected.

"You're from the Midlands, I take it."

"When last I checked, you were a sailor disgraced from service of the Midlands," the Chamberlain replied.

"Discharged," the Keeper corrected. "After my injury proved too cumbersome for sailing. I've been in Northedge for so long, I'm something of a native now."

The Chamberlain seemed oddly put off by the conversation, as if he expected it to unfold differently, which was particularly odd since the man had the look of a dullard with nothing but malicious cunning for wit. He didn't appear to be a man that dreamed and schemed, a man with a plan.

At least, not a man with his own plan.

It shouldn't have unnerved him, the thought that the Stormbringer had set his own plans in motion, yet his innards shifted uncomfortably when he considered it. From what little he had learned of the Stormbringer's past life, the man had been a villain of wretched wit and wrath, the kind of monster who never acted without due consideration and counter moves aplenty. It would be unexpected for him to attend such an occasion without at least one.

Yet the Keeper still felt uneasy.

"According to the official record, you were discharged but barred from all service, banned even from private charters," the Chamberlain continued. "Technically not disgraced, but only because your brother took the lion's share. Before he was executed, I mean. Guilty of piracy and treason."

"You shouldn't speak of things you don't understand," the Keeper replied in an even voice.

"I guess they figured there wasn't a need to put you through a trial," he continued. "A one-handed ex-sailor stranded in Northedge."

"I was never suspected," the Keeper replied. "I never committed treason or piracy."

The Chamberlain replied, "Huh. They must've thought you did something wrong. Why else would they abandon you in the Northmost Lands? If you were truly innocent, wouldn't they bring you home to bury your traitor of a brother? Instead, they stripped him and left him to rot in an open field."

The idea of his brother's remains being treated so disgracefully made his blood boil. He neared the precipice of rage that would have him lash out at the fool taunting him. It took him everything he had to remain calm.

"Cruelty exists in every corner of the world," the Keeper replied, the rehearsed mantra calming him slightly.

But only slightly.

"Well played," the Chamberlain said, his demeanor changing in the blink of an eye. "It must be so difficult with that temper of yours."

"I'm a mere lighthouse keeper, hardly known for anything, least of all my temper."

"Are you now, Hook?" the Chamberlain asked, spitting out the last word as if it were obscene. 

The old moniker reminded him of the harsh and cruel man he had been so very long ago. It seemed his plan to delay a physical altercation was at an end.

* * *

The Survivor stood atop Stagrock Light, relishing the salt air. She watched the Stormbringer climb the tower via the new rope later, and every time he looked up, she caught a glimpse of his childlike face, which caused her memory to resurge briefly, vague and elusive. It inspired a nagging, gnawing sensation, the kind she normally only experienced when she had left an important task undone.

The Stormbringer had anticipated - no, expected - some challenge to his authority, which was why he came prepared with chains for the girl and a noose for the one-handed alcoholic, though the former pirate seemed to have abandoned that particular vice in this life. Despite the Keeper's previous meddling in his affairs, Pan - or as he was called in his world, the Stormbringer - had no ill will toward him. Well, not much ill will, certainly not enough to spare him much thought beyond the noose.

On the other hand, he had ample reason to lash out at the Survivor, Emma Swan. She hadn't dealt the final blow that killed him, but she paved the way for Rumpel to strike. Between that and preventing him from obtaining the Heart of the Truest Believer, he had every intension of insuring that she suffered for a very, very long time.

He grimaced as he progressed upwards. The Midlands Climb. What a ridiculous tradition. He should've thought of it and prepared, found a way to retrieve her without having some rope ladder rub the skin of his hands raw.

But he wouldn't suffer any additional delay. If he had his own way, he would've gotten to Emma and Hook long ago, sought and exacted his revenge with a very specific kind of cruelty. Unfortunately, his role was secondary - more of a punitive addition rather than by design - but given the circumstances and the rarity of the opportunity for such sweet revenge, he gladly reveled in his newfound fortune. 

He saw the train of a dress flapping in the wind as he neared the top. He smiled at the idea of throwing the Survivor over his shoulder and descending with her kicking and screaming while the long white train of her dress dragged over the filthy stone of this miserable island. There was something oddly satisfying in embracing the known tableaux of a hero-king claiming an unwilling prize.

The Stormbringer's arms felt heavy as he neared the roof, and his legs likewise were sore and tired. It had been a long time since he had to engage in continuous, rigorous activity, one of the many benefits of his title as the Northmost King. He only had to do what he desired; everything else he willfully pawned off to his minions. It occurred to him that this climb was no exception; he could've ordered some of his men to retrieve her. It would've been quite a satisfying insult in terms tradition. Alas, he had come too far to change his mind.

He would make the Survivor pay dearly for the stress to his sinews. In this life, she was a fugitive and a criminal, not some fairy tale princess. Even in her other life, where she was born royalty, she had become little more than an abandoned gutter rat. She had no right to make demands of the fleas in her hair, let alone her king and master.

His hand grabbed the turrets that flanked the edge of the lighthouse, the begining of his long and vicious revenge palpable on every bud on his tongue, inspiring his lips to curl into a wicked grin as he pulled himself onto the roof. He was so exhilarated by his climb that it took him a moment to notice that the Survivor was not there.

In her stead, there stood a tall coatrack adorned in a dress. This had all apparently been a distraction. Even the dress was false, for upon first glance it seemed fine and resplendent, yet with little more than a moment's consideration, its true nature became obvious. It was nothing but old white cloth stitched over rags, a fitting sham for the likes of the Survivor.

"Tsk, tsk!" he shouted loudly. "Hiding will do you no good! I will raze this lighthouse to the ground and drown its Keeper in the shallows if you don't come out this very moment, wench!"

A blonde head of hair appeared over the north side of the tower's edge, followed by her face, which was markedly neutral, though her eyes were brimming with disdain. She wore a belted tunic with a heavy vest and trousers made of leather.

And she had a double-bladed ax strapped to her back.

He laughed. Did she really intend to fight a titan with a battleax? She must be more foolish in this life than the last.

"You've managed to trick me into climbing this baneful tower," he hissed. "That should be victory enough. Do not test my patience further. Your punishment is already, quite unimaginable."

She smiled back, her eyes warm with malice, for the Survivor was unafraid of the Stormbringer and his threats. Should her plan fail, she would die rather than fall into his sadistic hold. He had come so readily that she was almost disappointed.

Almost. 

"What do you have to smile about?" the Stormbringer hissed. "Perhaps you've fail to understand the situation."

"No, I understand it perfectly," she replied. "All my life, I've resented people like you. Taking whatever you want, killing whoever you'd like, not caring about the tragedy you leave in your wake."

"Tragedy is for other people," the Stormbringer snarled. "You've murdered at least one man. By most accounts, you deserve to be put to death."

"I've never murdered anybody," she replied. "I can't say the same for you."

"You speak boldly," he said, almost impressed with her gall. "But I'm already bored. You are my property now and have no right to speak without my leave."

The Stormbringer stepped forward only to find his legs restricted. He thrust an arm forward, but it, too, did not move as he bid it. He sneered as he jerked his appendages one way, then the other. It seemed that the more he moved, the less range of motion he possessed.

"What have you done?" the Stormbringer demanded loudly.

The Survivor didn't reply.

Her parents, the Swans, had read her bedtime stories throughout her childhood, so when she went to school and made friends, she told them those tales she knew so well. Their parents were shocked. Who would read such scandalous tales to someone so young? But the Swans kept reading to her anyway, and when she asked why, all either of them would say was that she might find them of use one day. That was how she knew of Antaeus and Heracles.

It was also how she knew of the revenge of Hephaestus. 

Hephaestus was married to Aphrodite. When he discovered that she was having an affair with his brother Ares, he had no recourse, for what chance did a blacksmith have fighting the ever-potent deity of war? No, he didn't have the strength to overpower his brother, yet he couldn't allow the transgression to continue. So he went to his forge, as he did every day, and working with his hammer, and each strike fueled his mind. For three days and nights he brooded over the flame and spark until he finally had a true retaliation against the two adulterers.

The next morning, he returned to the forge and crafted a chained net so fine that even the eyes of a deity could not discern it. Then he set the chain about the bed, knowing that Ares and Aphrodite were soon to return, and he waited. When the lovers tumbled onto the sheets, they were too lost in passion, too entangled in one another to notice the trap closing around them. It didn't take long for both to become so completely ensnared that neither could move, but Hephaestus waited, allowing them time to understand their circumstance, before he returned to the room and hauled the net about them, that he could carry them out for their shame to be seen. Thus, Ares and Aphrodite's affair was shown plainly and scandalously to all of Mount Olympus. 

The Survivor and the Keeper were no match for the strength of the Stormbringer, even if those he encumbered with his service refused to come to his aid, but with the help of an old Midland tradition and a fine net of metalwork set to draw in upon approach, perhaps they could get the best of a titan with a child's face.

And it just so happened that the beacon of Northedge was guarded by a net so finely woven that it was called the Snare of Hephaestus. The Survivor encountered it on her first exploration of the lighthouse when it took hold of her hand. Had she unwittingly stepped into it, her entire body would've been snared, and she would've never been freed from it.

The Stormbringer's curses echoed, no doubt drawing the attention of those below. She could only hope that the Keeper had already subdued the Chamberlain, for she could not yet come to his aid. She drew her ax and approached the struggling Tyrant from one side, angling for his outstretched arm. There was something on his face that she found satisfying and sickening at the same time, and it took her a moment to realize that he was terrified, probably for the first time in his life. Or, at least in this one.

She brought the ax down on his arm, but his skin was so tough that she barely drew blood, though he shrieked as if she had cleaved his arm from his elbow. It was more from rage than pain, and the Stormbringer thrashed in an attempt to knock the weapon from her hand, only to find his binding even tighter.

She brought the blade down again and again until she broke his flesh open, splitting the sinews of one arm. She wanted to cleave the appendage in two, but his bone was too thick for her ax. So once his blood flowed freely, she targeted the other arm, then one leg, then the other, so that his arms and legs buckled, drawing the snare in tighter.

"You will pay for this!" he shouted for the thousandth time. "I will make you pay!"

She brought the ax down on him again, but this time, his left arm crossed the path of her blow. So powerful was his counter that it not only stopped her attack but threw the weapon back, dragging the rough handle across her hands, breaking her freshly blistered skin.

The Survivor stifled her scream as the ax flew from her grip, ricocheting over the edge of the lighthouse.

Inflamed with his success, the Stormbringer fought against his bindings, slipping in his own blood as he came after her, his face a wretched snarl of malice. She sidestepped his clumsy attack, and when he turned to redouble his efforts, he lost his balance, his feet slipping in his blood and his body swaying with the net. The belligerent titan spun around in a vain attempt to catch himself, but he didn't have enough pull to halt his fall. 

A high-pitched sound emanated from his chest as he toppled over the northern edge of Stagrock Light, plummeting headfirst, missing the top parapet but crashing into the next, his head thrusted up against his neck, jolting his entire body. It was like lightning burning through his spine, electrifying his every nerve. He would've howled and screamed, but his lungs and mouth failed him. 

The Chamberlain and the Keeper had resorted to hand-to-hand combat only moments before the titan fell, for the Chamberlain's sword had been cast into the water while the Keeper's long knife lay out of reach on the docks, not far from the long ship, where all the rowers sat and observed the fight, resolutely refusing to participate.

At first, the two men were so engaged in their brawl that the world could be set aflame around them without drawing their notice, but even they could not ignore the horrifying crack that sounded from the bottom parapet. Even if that had escaped their attention, the rain of blood that cascaded over the northern walls of the lighthouse.

The two men broke apart with fists raised and turned their eyes upward. The Keeper feared that their plan had failed, that the Survivor was cast down from the roof, and it was her blood that now dripped so liberally from the sky. He froze when he saw a massive body plummet from the parapet, as if it had bounced off the stone. He hardly had time to step away from the wall to avoid the fresh gobs of blood when everything came to a sharp halt.

The Survivor had thrown the burly, child-faced titan off the top of the lighthouse, tangled up in the Snare of Hephaestus, which held his limbs at incongruous angles and suspended him upside-down, dangling only a few feet off the ground. In truth, the Keeper could only suspect the snare, for it was invisible save for a few facets of light that reflected not just tainted red but also blue-gold where the fine chainmail that made up the net had drawn so closely together that it could no longer maintain its unseen property completely, not even for mortal eyes.

The descent of the Stormbringer couldn't have been longer than a few second, yet to all who witnessed it, it was an age onto itself.

The Chamberlain guffawed - a sound somewhere marvel and utter disbelief - and, in so doing, reminded the Keeper that there was still yet a threat. He acted immediately, attacking before the Chamberlain could shake the raw shock that left him like a statue.

One, two, three strikes to the face, followed by a faithful horizontal left elbow to the nose, and the Chamberlain relented, dazed from the blows. The Keeper bound his hands and legs before hogtying him for good measure.

The Stormbringer screamed as he fought against the tightening net wheedling its way into his flesh. His furious movements made him swing back and forth like a ridiculous pendulum suspended from the top of Stagrock Light, his feet above his head and his arms strung up at his sides. He wanted to speak, to shame the soldiers who refused to stand on his behest, to cry out for ruin upon their houses, and most of all, to curse the names of Killian Jones and Emma Swan. But when he opened his mouth, only a rustling howl came out, for the net had circled his neck, becoming tighter by the second under his own weight, forcing the air from his lungs. 

His eyes bulged as he fought for breath, and those that had rowed the longboat kept to their seats, a few casting an occasional glance to the dangling Tyrant. Yet none took courage when the brute finally gave up the ghost and his quivering stilled, leaving only the pendulous motion from the wind.

There was nothing but the wind thwarting the silence for a time until the Survivor exited the basement door and joined the Keeper. As soon as the Chamberlain laid eyes upon her, he began to shout.

"You're all fools!" he screamed. "The Northmost King cannot die! He will recover and wreak havoc on you and all you love for your treachery!"

"He's right," the Survivor said to the rowers, the woebegone soldiers who had once been the heroes and heroines of Northedge. "If the Stormbringer revives, he'll be worse than he ever was before, slaughtering everyone we've ever loved. So, let's make sure he can't revive. Send him to the deepest fathom of hell and make sure he never comes back."

"Is that even possible?" one man asked from the back of the longboat. "I saw him die - pass beyond the edge of death - only to stand up moments later and kill the last of his assailants. He died, yet he lives."

"Only if he touches the earth," the Survivor explained. "When he does so, his mother replenishes his life force. So if we want to stop the Stormbringer, we need only give him a burial at sea. The only thing stopping us, the Keepers of Stagrock Light, is our boat. It's far too small to transport his body."

"She's lying!" the Chamberlain shouted. "She doesn't know what she's saying! She's a fool!"

"Perhaps she is," a woman said as she stood from the boat and stepped onto the dock. "But one breath of hope is worth a hundred tears of dread. This man has already told us that the Stormbringer will show no mercy. So if there is any chance - even a fool's chance - that we can banish the Tyrant from this world, I say we take it."

The others were slow to follow, but one by one, each of the rowers had joined the Survivor on the dock as the Keeper went inside and ascended to the roof. He lowered the snare from above, and the rowers carefully guided the Stormbringer's body to the longboat without letting it touch the ground, thus avoiding any possibility of his mother Gaia reviving him through the stone of Stagrock.

The Chamberlain continued to scream incoherently, and the rowers dragged him, trussed and wriggling, aboard the vessel, tying him down at the bow. The Survivor and the Keeper both offered to assist in the disposal of the body, but it was clear that the former heroines and heroes wanted nothing more than to take up those old mantles again, and what better way to do it than casting away the enemy who stole those very titles from them?

"We owe the Keepers of Stagrock a great deal," one of them said. 

"Our lives," said another.

"Our freedom," said a third.

"Our families," said another.

"We had a selfish investment in his demise," the Keeper added with a wry twitch of his lips. "Northedge has no king."

This earned a resounding cheer from the rowers, who were ready to dispatch the Northmost King to the watery abyss. One took over as rowing master, calling each stroke as they traveled due south into the Great Untamed Ocean.

The Keeper and the Survivor took their time climbing to the roof so that they could watch the longboat disappear into the southern horizon. 

"What do you think they'll do with his former Chamberlain?" she asked.

"With any luck, they'll tie the Stormbringer to him like an anchor and throw him into the sea," the Keeper replied.

The Survivor put her hand on his arm, delicately tracing the outer aspect of his bicep, which bore a the glancing wound. He bit back a hiss of pain, turning to her in a combination of confusion and concern.

Her eyes told him everything, and for just a moment, he forgot how to speak.

"I thought... I thought I'd lost you," she said, though she wasn't speaking of the day's events.

"I promised to survive. I keep my promises."

"No, I mean, I thought I'd lost you again," she said. "Killian."

His heart rate increased rapidly, for it understood her meaning long before he could truly comprehend what she had said. She remembered that past life. She remembered him - no, them - from their past life together.

And so did he.

Milah had left a gapping hole that he allowed to fester, but as he fought the Chamberlain, memories of his love for the Savior returned, indistinct but blissfully real. They became so curious that they distracted him, which consequently led to the wound on his arm.

"Swan?" he asked, the familiarity of the name falling right into place.

She smiled, and then she grabbed his collar and pulled down, standing on her tiptoes to bring him into a very long-overdue kiss.

There was a stir of echoes that rose up as a howling wind in a hailstorm; a collection of whispers in an ember that emptied into a glaring, scalding fire that burned a blinding brightness.

Then nothing but stillness and silence.

The Keeper had expected to relive his past life, to experience a rush of his memories, but it wasn't like that at all. He felt clarity, a certainty, of things he'd never known and never done before. His childhood, his life as a sailor, then as a pirate, those blissful years with Milah, losing her, his villainy, his pact with Regina, killing his own father, his deal with Cora... it was as if those long years of his false life were being gradually replaced with the truth. Yet, some things remained indistinct, like traveling to a new realm, a Land without Magic, to a place called Storybrooke. He remembered his love of Emma Swan - those dreams he once thought fiction were a startling truth he never imagined possible - yet he couldn't recall the moments that made up that love.

"Swan?" he repeated, hoping her memory served her better.

That was when he noticed her change in demeanor. There had been a brash of courage on her face when she pulled him into that kiss, as one lover greeting the other after a very long time apart. But now, her eyes were downcast and heavy with sadness, her shoulders slumped, and she had stepped back to put distance between them. Her eyes were out of focus, and he wondered what she recalled that cast such a pallor over her. He waited for her to speak, but she said nothing.

The Survivor registered that he had spoken to her, but she couldn't acknowledge him, couldn't even look at him. The faceless people that filled her dreams vanished, replaced by real memories of her true life in another realm, and the only people who remained in her mind from this life were the Keeper, the Barkeep, the Bailiff, the Chamberlain, the Hermit, and the Swans. Everyone else was a fading memory that would soon be beyond even her faintest recollection.

She wanted to turn to the Keeper and express some small part of the raw energy surging inside her, but the furious tribulation within overpowered her, forcing her to fall to her knees with a wail that sounded across the ocean, echoing back a hundred thousand fold.

"Swan?" the Keeper asked, suddenly kneeling at her side.

The Survivor closed her eyes in a desperate and fruitless attempt to prevent the memories from becoming any clearer. Unfortunately, with her eyes closed, they came in full force, and the last thing she saw before the blackness of a faint was the horrific scene upon _The Yellow Bug_ , where the lightning illuminated the Locksmith's face, and by his side was the young, brown-haired boy who had stood beside Peter Pan in her dream. 

She struggled with herself for a moment, her heart aching so badly that her mind could barely think, yet needing so desperately to loose some part of her newfound misery into the world, that it might be gone from her.

"I think..." she said, her words halting and stymied. "I think I had a son."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hephaestus was a deity who served as the blacksmith of the gods. He was cast of of Olympus by either his mother Hera or his father Zeus, depending on the account. He was the only Olympian in all of Greek myth to return to Olympus after his exile.


	20. The Tears of Andromeda

The Survivor collapsed after her pronouncement, so the Keeper carried her to her chamber to tend her wounds as best he could. She had suffered very little in the way of physical injury - broken blisters on her hands and skin rubbed raw - yet he feared for her. Her proclamation about losing a child broke his heart, though he had never had a child of his own to lose. He could scarcely imagine the experience.

He first saw to her injuries, for the small mercy of her being unconscious meant that she need not feel the sting of his ministrations. He debrided the skin of her hands before applying bandages, and he carefully washed the blood from her face, arms, chest, and legs. None of it was hers, or at least, there were no injuries to indicate that it was her blood. He forewent modesty to ensure it. Satisfied that she was uninjured, he dressed her in a clean nightgown.

He spent hours by her side as she slept. He wished to sit by her side and see her through this, but his own wounds, however minor, required attention, preferably before the sun came up. So he went downstairs and collected provisions - water, bread, and fruit - and brought them to her chamber, placing them on the bedside table so sustenance would be near when she woke. Then he retired to his own chamber with all he needed to bandage himself.

The Survivor slept through the night, and for all outward appearances, she rested peacefully in her bed until the dawn of the next day.

Yet her dreams were far from pleasant, for the resurgence of her memories left her mind reeling with nightmares. She woke constantly during the night, though her awakenings last only moments and she never registered her own alertness. At one point, before the Keeper retired from her chamber, she opened her eyes and saw him sitting in the makeshift chair beside her bed, his hook on the bedside table. His face was so peaceful at rest, yet it served only to remind her of her troubles. Her eyes fell closed in shame, allowing the dregs of sleep to take hold, dragging her back into nightmares about children lost at sea.

When she woke properly the next morning, she forced herself to sit up properly so that she could not so easily fall asleep. She saw the food on the bedside table, yet no hunger stirred within her. Without consideration or care, she took hold of the bread and began to eat, vigorously chewing to resist the grasps of dreams and nightmares alike. As soon as she felt strong enough, she stood and drank the water, the coolness of it sending a shiver down her spine as it quenched her thirst.

Then she paced to thwart the aching tiredness that consumed her, but it wasn't enough to defeat the misery that had descended upon her. So she kept going, kept pacing, kept fighting.

The image of her son refused to fade from her mind. It was always the same picture, no matter how hard she tried to fashion another. He was impossibly real, a single person in color when everything around him was black and white, and his deep brown eyes met with hers as if he was seeing her, a ghost in a memory somehow perceiving her in the here-and-now. There was no question, he was hers, and his love was palpable. He was aboard _The Yellow Bug_ the night of the shipwreck, and then... then he was gone along with his father.

She had lost her son in that storm, and somehow, she had forgotten him. She couldn't even recall his name, and her attempts wrought nothing but a maddening cycle of futile endeavor, inevitable failure, and personal reprimand. What kind of mother would forget her own son? What kind of world would allow her to live without reminders? What cruel nature would have her forget his kind, brown eyes?

She had thought this world was a kind of punishment, a sort of penance for some evil deed she had perpetrated, though whence it came - from cure, curse, or curiosity - she had no idea. In this world, she had had a wonderful life, but it had all been stripped away, leaving her with little more than a future of grim, weary days full of heavy lifting and long hours, with nothing but a single kindred spirit for company.

But if this was a place to remedy a past wrongdoing, to purify herself, to pay penance, then why had the memory of losing her son been taken from her? Surely, her grief would augment any reprimand, yet she hadn't grieved, she'd forgotten.

Now that she remembered him, there was no fog of forgetfulness - no, not even oblivion itself - that could erase his impression from her heart, nor would she want such a terrible thing. If this place meant to purify her through suffering, would not the death of her only son contribute to her heartache?

Yet, her son existed nowhere in this realm, for she had spent many long hours searching for any scrap of information about the Locksmith and the storm that took him from her. Yet not one article of news, not one missive, not one certificate mentioned her son.

The Locksmith, Neal Cassidy, had been a thief in his younger days, stealing necessities to survive after his parents abandoned him, for in his mind, it was better to be a thief and a ruffian than an orphan. He had been very lucky, for many in his situation would've been caught far more frequently and by less understanding people. The last time he stole, he had chosen a store that tailored to people preparing for long journeys.

Normally, he pickpocketed change here and there, taking only a little from each person, so his theft escaped notice. Should anyone discover a missing copper coin, they could simply assume that they had dropped it. The stock of this particular store was far too expensive to be funded by his usual pickpocketing, but he decided the risk well-worth the reward because one night's hard work would feed him for an entire month.

The Locksmith, despite his youth, picked three locks with tools he fashioned himself from a smithy's discarded metals. He took dried meats, cheeses, and a few loaves of bread, and, as was his wont, he refashioned each lock he picked, lest some other thief come along and capitalize off his good work. Had he not spent so long at the task, the Merchant would not have caught him in the act. He was certain he would be sent to the Jailer and thrown into a dismal prison orphanage until the day the law deemed him an adult. The Merchant was furious, but then he saw that the boy had only stolen what he needed to survive. That same boy had thoughtfully chosen to restore each lock rather than making a quick escape. Many with his talent and luck would've stolen the best of his stock - most of it rotting before it could be sold - yet this thief had taken far less than he could carry.

It was not enough to move the Merchant to release him, however, for his stock was the only thing holding back the devastation of poverty. So he made a deal with the boy. He would help the Merchant build locks that even the cleverest thief could not pick and do many other chores besides, and in turn, the Merchant provided a small room and good food to eat. So renown was the Merchant's security that many begged him to provide the name of the person responsible for protecting his income and goods, and thus, the Locksmith earned his title.

He had told her that story at least a dozen times when they were dating, so she remembered it clearly. Yet even as she thought about it, a new story replaced it, one involving the theft of an automobile, whatever that was. She had met him while stealing his stolen car. Hadn't she? And she gave birth to her son at seventeen, and Neal wasn't there. He didn't even know she was pregnant with his child. She had no family, no friends, so she gave her son up so he could have a real family.

Except that didn't make any sense. She had a family, the Swans, who had adopted her as a baby, and her memories of them never faded from her mind. They weren't like the faceless masses in this world; whoever they were, they were _real_ , of that she was certain. Eva and Leopold Swan had loved her and raised her as if she were their own.

Yet they never mentioned their grandson. There was no way to conceal a pregnancy from her own parents, even if she desired such a thing. Her mother would've known before she did, and her father would've supported her. They would've taken their grandchild in as their own and raised him if she couldn't. So why did she have the distinct memory of letting him go without even holding him once?

The Survivor brought her hands to her face as she took a long, trembling breath. The memories of her past life and this current one blurred together, and she had no means of parting one from the other. They both felt real, even in a jumbled mess of contradictions, and the single point of clarity was that she had had a son, lost him, and forgotten him.

There was a knock at the door that startled her, for the sound so unexpected as to be painful to the ear.

"Swan?" his voice came from the other side of the door. "Are you awake?"

"Don't come in," she replied quickly.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

There was a long pause, and she feared he might open the door and press his company, somehow force her to talk about the son whose name she couldn't recall.

"Do you need anything?" he asked after a short eternity.

"No, I'm fine," she replied. Then she added, "Thank you for checking on me, but I promise you, I'm fine. I'll come down if I need anything."

"Aye," he replied. "I'm glad you've recovered. I'll be outside if you need me."

She kept still for several minutes after he stopped speaking, listening intently for his footsteps. When she felt certain he had walked down the stairs, she resumed her pacing, tuning out the world around her.

After the Stormbringer - no, Peter Pan - was dragged off to his watery grave, she had this surge of passion and longing for Killian Jones. When their eyes met, she knew he felt the same connection she did, its undeniable gravity drawing them together, and it was the strength of that bond that eclipsed everything else, from the memories of growing up abandoned to meeting Snow White and Prince Charming, her biological parents. She didn't blame the Keeper for her inability to remember her own son, yet she knew that if she went to him and spent time in his company, that connection would blot out everything else. It was so tempting to relinquish her own misery, to lose herself in the romance and find a few moments of happiness, but she couldn't let that happen. Before she could let herself do anything else, she needed to remember her son's name.

She wouldn't leave this room until she did.

* * *

The Keeper couldn't leave the lighthouse until he knew that the Survivor had come around. He wasn't concerned when she insisted he leave, for he had suspected that she wouldn't want company for some time.

He spent the morning doing his usual chores, which he completed much more swiftly these days. He wondered how he managed to stay on this tiny island without a proper ship for so very, very long without going mad, for though his memory had not entirely returned, one thing had been made abundantly clear to him: he wasn't some hermit turned lighthouse caretaker. He was Captain Hook, born Killian Jones, a rapscallion and a sailor, a pirate and a hero.

In this realm, everyone thought of themselves as their titles, for who they were was tangled up in in how they served and nothing more. So they minimized themselves, that they may be of better service to their post, and that went against every fiber of Killian's being. While he did not know the specifics involved, he assumed some manner of curse had erased his memories, replacing them with falsehoods and giving him a crippling fear of other people, and whoever the perpetrator, there would be hell to pay once Captain Hook found them.

He continued his affairs as he always had in this life for a number of reasons.

The first, most obvious, and most painful of those being his inability to help the Second Keeper, the Survivor, Emma Swan. He began to think of her less and less as the Refuge, the Fugitive, the Second Keeper, the Sheriff, for her many titles strained under the effort of eclipsing her whole person. Perhaps such measures had succeeded at that endeavor for many a year, but nothing could hide the wonder of Emma Swan for long. He willed himself to think of her by her name, and when he failed, he thought of her as the Survivor or the Lady of the Lighthouse. He wasn't sure if it was merely an act of habit or the effects of the wretched curse that stranded them here, but he would fight until the tides turned in his favor.

He felt their relationship, but the exact details of it escaped him. He wanted to say that he was madly in love with her, yet he failed to recall even a single conversation they had in their past life, which was strange because he had remembered them before. Hadn't he?

The second reason he pressed forward with his daily routine was to keep up appearances. The kind of magic required to replace memories was too powerful - too costly - to use on enemies who would simply be disregarded thereafter. Whoever the responsible part was must have some means of keeping watch on them, and they'd have cottoned on to the recent change in fortune at the lighthouse. He didn't want to raise any additional alarms, lest their tormenter besiege them with flying monkeys, attack llamas, or whatever hellish beasts villains had at their whims these days.

Thus, for the next seven days, Killian persisted in his duties as the Keeper of Stagrock Light, down to hauling comestibles from Cellar Island after their delivery. He maintained the facade as best he could, but he quickly became impatient with this life of monotonous reticence, amplified tenfold by the absence of the lovely Emma Swan.

She refused to leave her room, and his only comfort was that food and water went missing from the kitchen, proving that she still sought sustenance. He understood her withdrawal, and while he wanted nothing more than to share her company, it wasn't good form to encroach on another's grief.

On the dawn of the eighth day, he saw her sneaking back into her room with provisions enough to outlast a siege. She moved with haste, providing him only a moment's glance at her, but it was long enough to spot the dark rings around her eyes, the tangles in her hair, the grubbiness of her skin, and the utter disarray of the garments she wore. It seemed as if she hadn't slept in days. She was like a wounded animal, daring ventures only to retrieve basic necessities before slinking back into its den to hide from anything that might exploit its weakness.

It was maddening, seeing the woman who fiercely put the Dockmaster in his place with little more than an oar reduced to such timidity. He wanted to march into her chamber and demand that she cast off the shadow of her sadness. He had forgotten his own brother, yet the Ghost found a way to tap into that past life, shedding the falsehoods that concealed those memories. There must be a way for the Survivor to achieve this same revelation. 

_What if she already has succeeded?_ he thought to himself. The thought was like ice in his veins. _Bloody hell._

What if the Survivor remembered everything, including what happened to her son? He very much doubted the lad was alive, unless their parting was the product of wrongdoing. Perhaps he was out in the world, a man in the Midlands who grew up without his true mother. But what comfort would that be? The Survivor could never return to the Midlands to search for anyone, living or dead.

He bit his lip. Charging into her chamber and demanding the right to aid her was not only foolish but also possibly harmful. He required time to prepare, to consider his words and manner of speaking, before he broached any kind of conversation. Yet, to ignore her pain was akin to dismissing it, and he could not allow that to abide, either.

So he gathered a spare bit of parchment and a pen, and in his neatest handwriting, he scribed an invitation.

> Dear Emma Swan, the Lady of the Lighthouse:
> 
> I, Killian Jones, the Keeper of Stagrock Light, do formally invite you to dinner, to be served in the living room at dusk on the day of your choosing. 
> 
> Please sign your name and pin this missive to my chamber door on the morning of your selection.
> 
> I am sincerely and forever yours,  
> Killian Jones

He immediately tucked the note under her door, for had he read it over even once, he would've spent the rest of his day obsessing on the composition and weighing every word, eventually abandoning the missive all together. He could only hope that she would receive it as he intended it: an invitation without expectation or demand.

He then descended the stairs with measured steps, forcing himself not to rush. He had a long day of work ahead of him, so he could not allow the anticipation of her response to sap him of his energy.

But perhaps that lingering distraction caused Killian to be less than observant during his rounds. Any man who has survived at sea long enough would know better than to live in his own head, for it was far too easy to miss a lurking danger. Yet he couldn't help but wonder after the Survivor that morning as he rowed. He felt foolish when he realized that today was the beginning of the week. The schedule he adapted so long ago required him to inspect the southern side of the lighthouse on this day, but he, lost in his thoughts, had paddled toward Cellar Island. 

He decided to make something of an exercise out of his mistake. He pushed himself to row with sure and swift motion, racing an invisible opponent around the northern tip of Cellar Island before heading south to the lighthouse. The salt sea air energized his strokes, and every muscle in his body felt marvelously alive as he went, not protesting the daily grind but egging him onward. In no time at all, he returned to Stagrock, quickly circling the eastern side, that he might properly begin his day's work south of the lighthouse.

Killian's breakneck speed had exacted its toll of sweat, so he lifted the oars from the water and allowed himself to float aimlessly on in the long, deep shadow of the lighthouse. He closed his eyes for half a moment to enjoy the coolness against his skin.

That was when he knew something was very, very wrong.

Something compelled him to keep his eyes closed, as if not seeing would somehow protect him, and odd as it seemed, he indulged the impulse as he ruminated. Whatever was amiss, he had sensed it, deep in his bones.

_Think hard, you old fool_ , he chided himself.

Sweat dripped off his forehead, reminding him that he had elected to row furiously from the northern tip of Cellar Island to the southern side of the lighthouse, and he had no one but himself on which to blame any future repercussion. But he likewise knew that being slightly more sweaty than he was most mornings was hardly a reason for alarm or concern.

He opened his eyes, the shade mercifully protecting them from the sun.

_Bloody hell._

He had rowed along the eastern edge of Stagrock. The lighthouse's shadow would not fall on this side until the sun began its descent in the west. There was nothing to cast a shadow for leagues and leagues.

He turned his head east and spotted an enormous rock that hadn't been there the day previous. The blocked sun obscured most of its attributes, so he followed it up and up and up, the knot in his stomach tightening with every inch of ascent. It wasn't nearly as tall as the lighthouse, yet it seemed so large it would take forever to see properly. Water dripped down its sides, so it must have surfaced recently. His courage failed him when he finally saw the top of it and knew that the massive thing before him was neither rock nor ship but an enormous sea beast.

He bit his tongue to keep quiet, for such monsters were not unheard of in the Great Untamed Ocean, though he never heard of one coming so close to shore. As the stories went, they sunned themselves like land serpents, and so long as no ship or sailor threatened the beast, it would return to the sea without incident. There was no reason to suspect a word of truth in any of it, but he had neither harpoon nor sword at his disposal.

He remained still, hardly breathing, and soon the creature began to sink back into the water, submerging gradually. Relief infused him with a burst of energy until the creature's movements halted entirely. Something shifted, and for the first time, Killian saw the great orbs of its eyes, which were black and spotted red, as if it had not two eyes but a hundred faceted in its sockets, reflecting him a thousand times over.

_Bloody hell._

A deep rumbling came across the water as a wake, and the sea serpent roared, its breath a putrid wind that burned his eyes. He began paddling madly and without thought, continuing around the southern side of the lighthouse rather than coming about as he should have done to shorten his retreat.

When he realized what he was doing, he rowed harder than he ever had. The sea beast submerged, but its long fins remained visible in the water as it pursued its prey around the lighthouse. His mouth was dry, stifling his cry for help.

He couldn't scream until he rounded the western edge of the rock, so near the lighthouse's dock that he could taste it. No sooner had he felt assured of his return to dry land than the beast erupted from the water ahead of him, its great, scaled body thrusting upward and capsizing the boat, throwing its passenger away from the safety of the shore and into the belly of the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andromeda was the daughter of Queen Cassiopeia and King Cepheus of Aethiopia. Cassiopeia boasts that Andromeda was more beautiful then the Nereids, and as punishment, Poseidon sends Cetus to ravage Aethiopia. Nothing but the sacrifice of Andromeda would stop the monster's attacks, so her parents chained her to a rock by the sea to be devoured. She was rescued by the hero Perseus.


	21. An Insult to the Nereids

The Survivor hid in her chamber, simultaneously struggling to remember and endeavoring to forget. When she kissed the Keeper, there was a blazing moment where she discerned this life from the past without confusion, and everything fell into place.

Moments later, a shadow fell over her, and that clarity vanished as memories blurred together. She spent hours ruminating on the cause, considering everything from grief over her son to lust for the Keeper, yet no theory seemed sound. With no hope for progress, she turned to another question: what had brought such transparency to her memories?

What began the restoration of her memories? The past few months had been tumultuous, and so many things had changed that it was impossible to pick out a single enlightening event. To her, it had been a tumbling cascade of forfeiture and failure with moments of beautiful and terrible reprieve, followed by a blissful quarter year, which ended with the coming of the Stormbringer.

Had she remembered her past life because she faced her fear of the ocean in the worst possible way? Had she recalled her son because they had defeated the so-called Northmost King? Or had their partnership inspired the return of those lost days?

Or was it the kiss?

It was often said in the old tales that True Love's Kiss could break any curse, but those stories weren't real. At least, not like the ones about the battle between Heracles and Antaeus. She had never heard of a kiss saving anyone's life, yet the words _True Love's Kiss_ haunted her every thought.

So, what then? She and the Keeper shared a kiss borne of True Love, breaking the terrible curse that had taken their memories, only for the magical remedy to fail mere seconds later? Or had a new curse taken root? Did that mean that she needed to kiss the Keeper again?

She laughed out loud. It was ridiculous. Every time, no matter the arc or the shape of the thought, her mind circled back to her connection with the Keeper, as if all her thinking conspired to invent yet another reason to touch him. But she wouldn't, for she had resolved to know her own son's name before she spent time in the Keeper's company, no matter the duration.

Thus, her mind went round and round in circles, and she had no recourse but to follow, seeking illumination on a past that seemed destined for nothing but the shadows. Hunger, pain, and fatigue all vanished, leaving her in a daze of half-awareness, her thoughts so all-consuming that her body became foreign to her. 

But then something happened that she could not ignore. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and her entire being became alert, aware, and awake. Something drew her out of her chamber, for everything at Stagrock had become as familiar to her as the beating of her own heart and yet this curious thing escaped her reckoning. She left the loft and went out on the topmost parapet in time to hear a ferocious roar. Seeing no beast before her, she raced around the lighthouse until her eyes fell upon the Keeper rowing madly toward the dock. An ominous, dark shape was in the water around him.

"Keeper," she whispered. " _Killian._ "

She ran back inside for a weapon, and finding none, she raced down the stairs to the midline to the kitchen, which she knew was stocked with knives. She had grabbed the block before she recognized her folly. She was unpracticed at knife throwing, and whatever creature assailed them was under water. The only way she could help the Keeper was to distract the beast, and to that end, she need not deprive them of their cutlery.

So she collected as much firewood as she could carry and dragged it out to the main parapet. Her heart sank when she saw the serpent's head above the capsized boat, and she scanned the choppy waters for any sign of the Keeper. She screamed in fury when she found that there was only the beast and the upturned rowboat.

Her shout drew its attention, for the monster gradually turned its eyes to her.

Then she began pelting it with firewood.

She struck the beast's neck first, but the wood bounced off with no sign of ill effect upon the serpent. Her next throw landed squarely on its nose. The creature shook its head a few times but remained unharmed. She continued hurling the firewood while shouting and screaming, and it glared at her as a snake would a mouse, its eyes attempting to ensnare her with enchantment. Her wrath served as a shield, for the long, cold stare only enraged her further.

The beast shifted, raising its great neck up out of the water, but though its size was monstrous, its head could not reach the midline of the lighthouse. 

The Survivor feared that the Keeper may well have perished - crushed or bled or drown - during this creature's pursuit, and the notion put her in a rage the likes of which she had never before known. Her hand absentmindedly went to her pocket, where she kept her large folding blade, which she kept razor sharp for its myriad tasks.

She didn't think on her actions. It was as if some unconscious element of herself decided for her and set things in motion, leaving her more the witness than the perpetrator. But, once the serpent's head had reached its maximum height, her hand closed around the familiar tool, jerked it out of her pocket, and opened it with a flick of the wrist. She took hold of the sharpened end, and then, with a single swooping overhand, she loosed the blade on the monster.

A horrifying shriek erupted from the beast as it flailed uselessly and crashed into the water. Redness flowed to the surface, and for a moment, she wondered if she had somehow managed to kill it. But then it reared up again, hissing and spitting like a wounded dog, thrashing so wildly that its wake slapped hard against the shore of Stagrock. That was when she saw that she had put out one of the serpent's enormous eyes. 

The hissing became howling, and then all went silent as the beast became still as stone. She looked down and saw its single-eye focused entirely on her. She held its vile stare for several pregnant moments as the serpent calmly and slowly sank back into the ocean, its eye never leaving its mark till the waves covered its face.

Once it dipped is bleeding head beneath the waves, it went south, diving so deep that she could no longer see its shape moving under the water from the midline. She circled the lighthouse, searching for any sign of the Keeper, but all she saw was the capsized boat floating in bloodied water.

She descended the inner stairs so swiftly she nearly fell down the last three. She regained her footing, angling for the door, before she crashed headlong into something.

"Bloody hell!"

His words were more startled than angry, though she detected a hoarseness in his voice that only existed in the presence of pain. 

"Keeper?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Aye, lass," he replied. "Killian will do."

"But the sea serpent, it... it..."

"Capsized my vessel," he replied shortly. "The bloody thing fixated on me. I should've been carrying a harpoon..."

So great was her surprise at finding him alive and well that she forgot how to move and speak properly, for from the moment she saw him in a quivering heap on the basement floor, she wanted nothing more than to gather him up in her arms. Yet it wasn't until he rose to his feet, grumbling about his lack of preparedness, that she threw herself onto him. She didn't even mind that he was soaked through nor that her own garments swiftly became drenched from their prolonged embrace. 

"Did you miss me?" he asked, his sudden witty banter a foreign yet oddly delightful sound to her ear.

"When I couldn't find you, I... I..."

"Thought that beast had gotten the better of me?" he asked.

"The sea serpent did get the better of you," she chided. "It knocked you into the water."

"Aye, but it failed to swallow me," he replied. "Though, I must admit, my escape was facilitated by a rather well-timed distraction."

"I didn't see you," she said.

"I was under the boat, relying on the pocket of air," he explained. "Luckily, someone started screaming and, from what I could see as I swam to the dock, pitched rocks at its head."

"It was wood."

"You mean to tell me you wasted our bloody firewood?" he asked, his chastisement undercut by the amusement in his voice.

"Is there something in here you'd rather me pelt at a sea serpent?"

"Of course not, love," he replied. "I can always haul more from Cellar Island. It's the least I can do in return for saving my life."

He pulled her into another embrace, nestling his nose into the crook of her neck. She squeezed him tighter, the relief of his still-beating heart canceling out the cold until a single drop of water dripped from his hair down her back.

The effect was immediate and startling. She went from euphoric to despondent with a single shiver, and the misery that had haunted her every waking hour before the serpent caught her attention returned in full force.

She swallowed it. The Keeper might've survived the beast, but hypothermia was a lurking predator that could easily snatch away his life.

"We need to get you warm and dry," she said.

"Though it may surprise you to hear, I have dealt with this before," he said, his voice buoyant and playful.

She turned away from him to hide her reaction. Nothing aided recovery like high spirits, so she would do nothing to douse his. She took his arm to lead him up the stairs, but he dallied at the bottom.

"Is the serpent gone?" he asked.

"It went south."

"We need to recover the boat," he said. "Otherwise, the tide will take it. Your raft is a fine thing, but - "

"It can't take bad weather," she said, finishing his thought. "Can you get up the stairs by yourself?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you need to get dry," she replied. 

"And you'll need someone to keep watch," he pointed out. "I won't let you risk your life while I wait inside by the fire."

"No, you'll be watching from the midline," she said with authority. "You freezing on the dock wouldn't be nearly as helpful."

"Aye, but - "

"Good, then it's settled."

She relinquished his arm and went to the far side of the basement. About a month ago, she had built an installation over the wall to stow everyday tools. The Keeper previously hauled everything upstairs to the bottommost storage closet, lest a storm flood his most valuable possessions. It was a tedious business to carry every item up the narrow stairs, especially when most required no special care or maintenance, only storage, often for a but single night.

Unwilling to continue the tradition of needless tedium, she devised a solution that enabled them to hang key tools in the basement high above the floor, where no flood could reach them. It wasn't a particularly aesthetic creation, as it required additional re-enforcement of the wall and a large number of pegs that jutted out at ugly angles, but even she could not lament its function nor underestimate its value.

She easily found an improvised grappling extension arm, which the Keeper had modified from old fishermen's gear. It was essentially two long poles that augmented a hooked end, which made it perfect for grabbing material otherwise out of reach. She likewise found their best net.

Killian waited at the foot of the stairs, hesitating. He watched as she selected all the right tools to aid in the recovery of the boat, and while he was proud of how fine a sailor she was these days, he detested leaving the salvage to her, especially with a dangerous sea beast so near.

"You realize it won't be safe for me to start until you're upstairs," she said.

He bit his lip. She was right, of course, but he would give anything in this or any other realm to be the one on the ground. It seemed so foolish a thing, risking Emma's life for a boat, but it was their only true means of transport to Cellar Island or the mainland.

"Aye," he replied. "I'll call down when the coast is clear."

She nodded, and he started up the stairs. Once he passed the basement door, the beautiful warmth of the lighthouse washed over him. He ducked into the first storage room stocked with spare clothes and hastily dried himself, though only enough that he might continue without sullying the lighthouse. He selected the two heaviest coats available and threw them over his arm before he continued directly to the midline.

His foot fell heavily and with haste, for he had the sneaking suspicion that Emma wasn't waiting for him to call the all-clear. She was probably outside at this very moment, unaware of any nearby dangers. 

That thought spurred him onward and upward, despite the numb ache in his body. He had the presence of mind to toss another piece of wood on the fire before he went out on the main parapet, where the wind cut him to the bone. 

He donned the jackets. Though they barely warmed him, they kept the cursed wind from stealing what little heat he had, and for now, that was enough. 

He quickly assessed the area and saw nothing of the serpent, save for what seemed to be blood in the water. How the devil did she make such a creature bleed? He smiled. Who else would be able to fight off a serpent with scales so tough that even the sharpest of harpoons snapped upon strike?

That was when he spotted a crown of blonde hair on the dock, leaning out over the water. The rowboat was upside-down and slightly out of reach. She had already captured it with the net.

He grimaced at the realization that she had started without the all-clear, but the anger he thought would flare up didn't come. She was a maddeningly stubborn woman, fiercely independent, and infinitely capable.

At this very moment, he witnessed her singlehandedly haul the rowboat to the dock. Had he been the one to handle its recovery, he would've righted the vessel first, as all seafarers were wont to do, which would've forced him to waste precious time bailing it out before dragging it onto the dock. Emma was too clever a lass to make that particular mistake.

She shouldered the vessel with a single grunt, and guilt surged hard in his gut. There was no point in racing to her aid; not only was she more than able to finish the task at hand, but by his arrival, she would surely have the boat stowed.

Still, he kept watch from his perch above till long after she and the vessel disappeared into the lighthouse. There was no sign of the serpent, but he hardly expected it to return. The monsters of the sea rarely came so close to land, and when injured, they retreated to a place of strength. He doubted they'd ever see its like again. For some reason, that disappointed him.

"Keeper?" Emma called from within.

"I told you, love, it's Killian," he replied loudly.

"I'll call you whatever you want if you come inside." 

She was right. He should be warming himself by the fire. He should've started once she was safely inside. It was foolish, lingering out in the cold, yet he found himself willfully ignoring his better judgment. 

"I'll hold you to it," he said briskly.

He stepped off the balcony with a wide, brimming smile. Before the Survivor could reply, Killian's legs gave way. The last thing he recalled before the swallowing darkness was crashing hard to the floor.

* * *

The Survivor assumed the worst when the Keeper collapsed. She checked for injuries, and discovering none, her hand came to rest over his heart, where she felt a steady but weak tempo. His skin was deathly cold to the touch, despite the many layers he wore to insulate himself.

She wanted to curse him and his stubbornness. Why was he so foolish, standing in the cold while still covered in salt water? He had tended this lighthouse long enough to know better, yet here he was, sprawled on the floor and in complete pallor.

She stripped his outer garments and dried his still-damp skin and hair before laying him out by the fire and covering him with countless quilts and blankets.

And then she waited.

The sun was going down when his eyes opened again. He was still pale, but some faint color returned to his cheeks.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "What happened?"

"You are an idiot," she said harshly. "That's what happened."

Killian picked up on her tone immediately, so he responded with an appropriately rueful attitude. She plied him with hot soup and tea, then demanded he remain by the fire until the next morning. Being in no position to argue, he agreed without hesitation or question. 

He had planned to speak with her, to remind her of who he was, but he felt too weak from the day's events. So he ate his soup and drank his tea before sinking back into the warm paradise of blankets.

"Thank you, Swan," he said.

"What did you call me?"

"Swan," he repeated, not alert enough to register the concern in her voice. "You always seemed to like it when I called you that."

"You've never called me that before," she said. Then, as an afterthought, she added, "Killian."

"Not in this life, Swan," he said fondly before he fell into a dreamless sleep.

The Survivor stayed with the Keeper through the night, ensuring that the fire burned high and hot, but for all her efforts, her mind remained fixated on that fateful night aboard _The Yellow Bug_.

She tried to remember her son's name. Unfortunately, all she recalled was an image of his kind face and his big brown eyes alight with a curious smile before the hideous events of the storm swallowing up everything in a long, dark eclipse.

Perhaps he never existed in this life, though she could scarcely convince herself that that was any more than wishful thinking, for while she'd loath a life without him, it would be better than knowing that beautiful smile was snuffed out by a raging tempest.

When the sun came up, the Keeper's complexion had returned to normal, but he slept on despite the sunlight filling the room. That was when she realized that there wasn't enough firewood to keep the fire burning all day. 

Worried that he may yet be foolhardy, she scribbled a quick note warning him to remain in the living room until her return. Then she stepped onto the balcony to search for any sign of danger, but there was nothing. The sky was clear and the water, placid.

Perfect weather for her raft.

It wasn't ideal for transporting loads, but her mind became set on it as soon as she pondered it. So she descended to the basement, loosed her raft, and tied down a pair of oars for her journey.

Something about the harshness of her task on a cold, bleak morning cleared her head. Her trip to Cellar Island was uneventful, as was loading the firewood and securing it to the raft, though she earned many new blisters for her trouble. The wind and waves picked up on her return to Stagrock but nary enough to jostle her.

The high morning sun beat down on her when she moored the raft. She began unloading the oars and then firewood by the armful, taking as little as she could carry without feeling foolish, for the sweltering heat and the work gave her a short but blissful freedom from her misery. She wished she had brought a larger stock to extend her reprieve.

She let her mind wander as she continued the work like an automaton, her mind awash with brown eyes and bright, warm smiles as she went.

Then the sky turned black.

It was especially bizarre because there had been no sign of an oncoming storm. In an attempt to discern the immediate state of the weather, she cast her eyes up to the clouds, but all she saw was a hulking mass that blotted out the sun. As soon as she spotted it, it was as if the world fell under a blanket of silence, for the only sound that escaped the muffling of her ear was a low, hissing breath infused with the foul stench of rotting flesh.

 _It came back_ , she thought to herself.

Indeed, though the stillness made it difficult to verify, she had no doubt that the sea serpent from the day previous loomed before her. Fear rooted her to the spot, and she forgot all good sense as the beast shifted, splattering the dock with water and blood.

It roared, and its putrid breath spurred her into action. She flung the wood in her arms - taking no notice when it fell short of its mark - and ran for the open basement door.

The serpent's pursuit was announced with an enormous thumping crunch, but she dared not waste even a moment by glancing back to see what ruin the beast had wrought. The Survivor leaped for the threshold while inelegantly grabbing at the inner handle of the opened door, hoping she could yank it shut behind her. It was then that curiosity finally made her a proper fool as she stole a peek at the monster chasing her.

Pain radiate from her right arm as the enormous mass that was the one-eyed sea serpent brought its jaws across the door. It screeched as bits of dislodged wood impaled the soft flesh around its teeth, rearing back in surprise. The thickness of the door and the angle at which she held it spared her arm from its lower jaw, but several monstrous teeth scrapped her forearm, leaving four deep gashes.

She almost lost her hold on the handle, but she augmented her grip with the other arm and slammed it shut. She hastily barred it and struggled to secure the storm door as the beast battered against the flimsy wooden barrier.

Once barred and sealed inside, she turned to her freely bleeding arm. Some of her skin covered the wounds, hanging jagged and loose. The salt water amplified the deep stinging throb, and every move she tried with her hand or fingers earned her a deep, burning pain. 

As worried as she was about her arm, it wasn't enough to distract her from the snarling, snapping, and cracking that emanated from the other side of the door.

She stumbled up the stairs, abandoning the newest cache of firewood. She couldn't be certain that the storm door would keep the serpent at bay. From the amount of splintering that was echoing from outside, it didn't seem like it could take much more.

As she scrambled up the stairs, her mind began to catalogue all the oddities of the past two days. Why would a sea serpent attack a tower of near-solid stone? Why would it return before it healed? Why had it ventured so close to the mainland? Weren't they monsters of the deep ocean?

The pain in her arm slowed her progress and eventually strained her balance, so much so that she alternated crashing into the bannister and smashing against the wall.

"Swan?"

She looked up to see the Keeper leaning over the stairs from the midline, his eyes as wide as the ocean against his pale face. 

"I can make it!" she shouted, knowing his first instinct would be to run down to her. "Get the med kit ready!"

Killian had no intention of dallying with some medical supplies while Emma struggled up the bloody staircase, but when he stepped toward the stairs, a whirl of dizziness struck. It vanished as swiftly as it set upon him, yet he knew that other spells were waiting to pounce when he was most vulnerable. There would be nothing he could do if his arms were unsteady, let alone if he fell unconscious.

Thus, he calmly gathered any remedy stored on the midline and carried it into the living room. His task completed, he waited.

He didn't have to ask what transpired, for the raging, spitting hiss of the sea serpent carried high and far. Why a beast of the deepest fathoms would return to so shallow a place was beyond his knowledge and, at this particular moment, beyond his care. There were but two things he wished to know about the monster outside. Why did it attack Emma, and how could he kill it?

He focused on those two questions as he idled, lest he rise from his seat and attempt to lead her up the stairs again. He needed to conserve his strength, no matter how much he loathed the eons of stillness.

Finally, he heard her approach, and he went to assist her to her seat. He no sooner reached the entryway than she collided with him, and he grimaced at the feeling of her hot blood. He wrapped one arm around her waist and took as much of her weight as she would allow, and he didn't care that he swayed under another wave of vertigo for his efforts.

"Where are you hurt?" he asked as he grabbed several clean dressing rags from the table. 

"It's just my arm," she replied.

She tried to hold out the injured appendage, but her arms shaking with fatigue. He scrambled for anything that might assist him, including the empty dinner tray and a stack of pillows. He layered them on the arm of the chair and added the tray on top before tentatively reaching for her arm.

She nodded her head, yes, before she relinquished her arm and let him take its weight. For so small and wonderful a thing, it was disproportionately heavy.

He rolled away what remained of her sleeve and revealed deep, dark gouges in her flesh. He wetted one of the rags and wiped way the red, hoping to discover that simply appeared worse than it was. Only the faintest edges of the wound still yet bled, but there was much work to be done to save her arm. Even if entirely successful, she would permanently bare the scars of this day.

He placed dry rags over the wound, but before he could rise to the thread and needle, her good arm darted out. She grabbed his hook.

"Don't worry about me. Hand me the rest of those rags and I'll be fine - "

"You bloody will not!"

"Listen to me," she insisted. "That thing outside has been battering the doors, and I don't know how much longer they'll hold."

"Even if I could reinforce them, you'd bleed to death before I returned."

"No, that wouldn't work anyway," she replied. "Distract it."

"Distract it?"

"Yell, scream, anything," she continued. "Just lure it away from the basement doors."

He glanced down at the dressings on her wounds, and his stomach dropped when he saw her blood rising through. It was worse than he surmised.

It was then that an idea came to him. It was ridiculous and almost certain to fail, but it could lure the monster.

"Don't pass out on me, Swan," he warned as he gathered her bloodied dressings. 

"Go," she urged.

Worried he might lose his footing, he went to the balcony doors with measured haste. As soon as he set foot upon the parapet, he heard its untainted roar, followed immediately by splintering wood.

"Stop attacking my bloody lighthouse!" he shouted. 

He raised his voice and continued to goad the beast, but it did nothing but create a few pauses in the serpent's attack. So he balled up one of the bloodied rags and threw to the south of the lighthouse with all the strength he could muster. Unfortunately, the wind did him no favors, so it landed not far from the southern edge of Stagrock.

But this time, the pause between shrieks was much longer. Any man who journeyed on a ship heard the legend that sea serpents were the bloodhounds of the ocean, and though he never considered it of import before, today could be the day Killian Jones proved that tale a fact.

"Ah, smell that do you?" he yelled.

He bunched up the next clothe and waited for the wind to die down before he lobbed it into the air. He continued to toss each one in, angling slightly west, until all five were beneath the waves.

He wasn't entirely sure when the serpent ceased its cried, but it wasn't long after he disposed of the final rag that the monster erupted from the surface, splattering water as high as the parapet, taking him by surprise.

"Bloody hell!"

Perhaps the events of the previous day had instilled a new aversion to his garments becoming doused, for in all his days as a seafaring man, he never once felt so embittered by an abrupt splash of salt water. 

He stepped back from the edge a few paces, only to discover that the insult of salt and water on his face was the only attack that the monster could hope to land, for its head fell well short of the midline. Despite its lack of reach, it screeched and snapped its ferocious jaws, wafting the hideous scent of decay. That was when he noticed the enormous, gapping hole where its eye should have been.

Killian wanted to remain steadfast, distracting the monster as long as possible, but between the stench of its breath and its miserable screaming, his knees barely tolerated standing. What good was he out here, with no weapon to harm the beast? Perhaps Emma could put out its other eye.

_You bloody fool!_

Emma was inside, bleeding freely from her injuries. How he had lost sight of that - even for a moment - was entirely beyond him. Without delay, he left the parapet for the living room. When he shuttered the door, it scarcely muffled the creature's sounds, but it did provide ample barrier for the smell, which was more than enough reprieve for him.

He glanced over at Emma, and he didn't like what he saw.

"Swan?" he asked.

He was at her side in an instant. She had wrapped her arm in layers of rags, then tightly compressed the worst of the bleeding with her belt and an old sea rope. On the one hand, it seemed as if the bleeding had stopped, but on the other, her eyes were shut, and her head was cast to one side.

"Swan, can you hear me?"

Her eyes opened slowly.

"Shhhh," she replied, her voice weak. "Not so loud."

"I need to stitch up these wounds," he said, lowering his voice. "And I can't stop every five minutes to distract that bloody serpent outside."

"Don't have to," she whispered. "I..."

Her eyes closed, and for a moment he worried he'd lost her, but when he put his hand on her chest, he felt the steady tempo of her heartbeat. 

He went to the kitchen for a fresh bowl of water from their reserve, and when he returned, he threaded two needles - one short and one long - for the task ahead. He cursed himself for wasting so much bloody time on something so simple, but even when quieted through a door, the echoing shrieks attracted an undue measure of his concentration. 

Killian blocked out the sounds of the beast with a single long, focused breath. Let the bloody thing destroy everything they had in the basement. All of it together wasn't worth a single strand of her hair.

* * *

Minutes, hours, and eons passed as Killian stitched her arm, and the task so absorbed him that it was as if none of the world beyond this one room existed, as if the sun and moon were but fairy stories whispered in the wind as magical delights of the unseen world.

He did not recognize the exact moment when the serpent fell silent as if struck mute, nor did he register the continued quietness thereafter. Neither the wind nor the rising slaps of the waves against the shore garnered his attention, for nothing in this realm or any other was worthy of his mindfulness, save for the woman bleeding before him.

There had been many a time that Captain Hook had been at odds with himself, his actions challenged by his emotions or his feelings condemned entirely by his choices. The persistence of defeat and doubt - doubt that she would survive, doubt that her arm would recover, doubt that she would forgive him for his shoddy sewing skills - threatened him, a constant distraction on his periphery. Allowing that fear any kind of edge was dangerous, so he marshaled total inner silence, quelling his demons as much as his conscience.

In a way, it made those hours seem empty and hollow, like a particularly abysmal vigil of the damned, and the work failed to distract him from the ache. How did they end up here, marooned at the edge of the world and at the mercy of an enraged sea monster? 

He supposed there was some small victory in that they were here together.

He discarded the needle and examined his handiwork, loathed though he was to regard it as such. He had staunched the flow of blood and stitched her wounds closed, but there was considerable swelling from the sutures, a hazy red to contrast the black, blue, and purple bruises covering her arm.

He carefully covered the irritated skin with healing ointment before wrapping it in a single, thick dressing, which he covered with cold-soaked sponges to reduce the inflammation.

He hissed as his hand cramped abruptly, the muscles contracting viciously, protesting the prolonged hours with the needle and spurred on by the shock of cold sponges. He rarely encountered this before, but when he had, a deep breath of salt air always hastened his recovery. 

After one last check on Emma, he went outside to the main parapet in hopes of loosening his hand. As always, fresh air invigorated him, and the innervation immediately quelled the knots in his hand, though the soreness refused to abate. He closed his eyes as he rolled his wrist counter-clockwise and then clockwise, reveling in the numerous pops and crackles that alleviated his strained ligaments.

His eyes snapped open when a hissing gargle erupted from below. There was no question as to the origin of the noise, for though he had forgotten the lurking beast while the intricacies of suturing consumed his focus, he knew of nothing else on land or sea that antagonized its prey with the sounds of steam.

Nevertheless, he leaned over the rail to see the creature glowering at him, its head barely under the waves. The orb of one eye swiveled to follow his every movement while the cavernous socket that once housed its perfect twin remained eerily inactive, as if it canceled the motion of the tide and winds alike. 

He stepped away from the railing as a thousand ignored questions descended upon him like nagging kites. Why was the sea serpent still here? Had it been waiting on his return? Why hadn't it resumed its assault on the cellar? 

And why the bloody hell was it _staring_ at him?

Then he remembered an old legend Liam had told him, a bedtime story of sorts. Once upon a time, the Queen boasted that her daughter Andromeda was more beautiful than the Nereids. In retribution, Poseidon sent the sea monster Cetus to terrorize the kingdom. As with all such legends, the Queen discovered that the beast would not relent until she dearly paid for her insult, and the only fitting sacrifice for her repentance was her daughter's life. 

Mere months ago, he would've dismissed the tale as an old story to scare children, but his recent encounter with the Stormbringer gave him pause. Perhaps the serpent wasn't acting on its own will but on that of a deity or demi-god.

_Like Peter Pan._

In the life where he was called Peter Pan, he had no control over sea monsters, but in this realm, he had taken up the mantle of the Stormbringer, a titan. Killian couldn't put it past the little demon to task some hapless pet with revenge, should he fail to return and countermand that particular order.

How had Cetus been defeated? For the one thing he knew about the story's end was that Andromeda had lived to tell the tale. Some hero had swept in and slain the beast. No, Cetus was turned to stone with the severed head of the gorgon Medusa.

Having no such weapon at his disposal, he had no hope of leveraging Cetus's demise against his current foe.

_But that doesn't mean other tales won't provide insight._

Clearly the creature had no intention of departing, so Killian retired inside. He checked on Emma, covering her with a quilt, before he went to search his collection of seafaring lore.

* * *

The Survivor stood on a sandy beach with a fragile structure comprised of wood, and not nearly enough of it. Yet, though it provided no shelter, it held a special importance. It was _their_ place. Hers and her son's. He hid his book here, his storybook. It was his most prized possession, and they shared it here.

Her son loved stories. They gave him a singular joy. His eyes lit up with every page turn and every picture. And this... this was their castle.

She woke up in the old arm chair with her most recent dream fixed in her mind. Her arm felt like it was simultaneously numb and on fire. Gnawing pain in her stomach informed her that she hadn't eaten for hours, and her good arm automatically reacted, her fingers searching the edge of the chair to the side table, where she knew the Keeper would've left provisions.

She groaned when she felt the soft edge of what must have been their last loaf of bread. She tore at it gracelessly, the voracity of her hunger overpowering her manners and form.

The paltry chunk she seized so eagerly elicited immediate regret, for it extenuated the dry ache inside her mouth that, moments earlier, had been entirely overshadowed by the pain of her arm. The sweet, soft taste rapidly depleted as she stubbornly masticated, unwilling to yield a scrap of the sustenance her stomach demanded.

She reluctantly forced her eyes wide and her mind, alert, for there was no doubt that the Keeper provided her with more than bread. The water was set out on the table in front of her; four glasses poured and ready. She gritted her teeth against the bread as she shifted forward, and her arm and back protested every millimeter. It seemed an eternity between seeing the glass and grasping it, and then another between lifting it and bringing it to her lips.

The first great gulp relieved the dryness of her mouth and eased the bread down. She measured her next sips, drinking till she emptied the glass.

Darkness had fallen, which meant she slept the day away, yet she was utterly exhausted. The fire still burned, so the Keeper couldn't be far. Her lips curled when she realized that there was no sound of the serpent's attack. Stagrock Light had survived.

She smiled and began to call to him, her mind and heart far lighter than they had been in weeks, but halfway through speaking, she stopped, remembering her promise to refer to him by his born name. It seemed too strange a custom to adopt, and she wondered if she would forever haltingly address him with an awkward combination of his title and his born name.

"Keep-Killian?"

There was no response, but if he were in the basement or outside, he wouldn't have heard her. She ate the bread and cheese before she dared to rise from her chair. Her arm was oddly cooperative, so long as she kept it in close with her elbow bent.

"Killian?" she shouted over the stairs.

She stumbled to one side suddenly, clutching the wall to steady herself form the impending dizziness. Her legs trembled violently. 

She winced when a burst of sunlight cascaded inside. The beam of illumination revealed that it wasn't her legs that were shaking; no, it was all of Stagrock.

A shadow cut through the light, tempering its brightness just enough for her to discern a shape outside the window. A long, sinuous body curled diagonally across, its flesh always moving, always shifting, till it again blotted out the daylight.

_The serpent is wrapped around the lighthouse._

The thought was ice in her veins, freezing her mind and heart alike. So, without either, she ran up the stairs as if tuned into some great cosmic script. As she ascended, she heard a blood-curdling roar.

" _Killian_ ," she whispered.

By the time she reached the ladder in the Keeper's quarters, she was frantic, and her worries only intensified when she stepped into the too-dim viewing level, where the once-clear windows were smeared with blood and slime. She nigh flew up the lengths to the hatch to the roof, her stomach taut with knots and her hands slippery with sweat.

She threw herself into the harsh afternoon sunlight, only to see the silhouette of the serpent's neck and head rearing up over the eastern wall, its fangs visible as it expelled a wave of sludge from its maw at the Keeper, who was retreating in due haste. Then he turned to the beast and brandished the double-bladed axe before he launched it toward the monster's remaining good eye. 

For a fleeting moment, a perfect tableaux appeared before her eyes: the valiant knight battling the terrifying dragon. It was like something out of one of Henry's storybooks.

_Henry._

Her son's name - and everything else about him - came back to her in a rush, a wordless cacophony of events that revolved around a small town in another land, a town her son brought her to, a town her son helped her save. Storybrooke. 

_"You're here because it's your destiny," Henry said. "You're gonna bring back the happy endings."_

And just like that, she knew what to do. Keeping the image of Henry's beaming smile fixed in her mind's eye, she planted her feet and raised her hands, despite the pulling pain of her injured arm. A golden glow erupted from her fingertips as energy radiated from her palms.

Everything slowed, or perhaps it was she, her senses, gaining the momentum of lightning. Killian caught sight of her, and his face morphed gradually until it conveyed both confusion and surprise as the axe collided with the serpent's snout, the metal striking so hard against scale that a spark erupted, but it otherwise had no effect on the monster as it ricocheted off and spiraled dramatically to the stone roof. It all transpired in a matter of seconds.

The monster redoubled its attack, its jaws widened to reveal another torrent of sludge bursting from its maw, not unlike how its landlocked counterparts exhaled flame. And just then, in the instant that its poison erupted from its roaring mouth, everything stopped.

The serpent's head was high above the roof, and its thick body encircled the lighthouse in layered rings that hugged so closed they appeared to be cut from the same clothe, or rather, shaped from the same stone. The creature's great teeth and vile torrent were likewise unmoving, so it appeared that Stagrock had always been home to the grotesque statue of the sea beast, who would surely be called in every fable hence the serpent who guarded the Sole Beacon of Northedge.

"Bloody hell."

His voice brought her back to the undeniable here and now, where she and the Keeper - she and Killian - stood beneath the afternoon sky marred only by the serpent of stone above their heads. Her hands, still held out before her, had returned to normal with no sign of the power she had just wielded and no golden glow to mark the occasion. She brought them in for closer inspection, as if they contained a secret kept from her, though she knew all too well what she had done and the means by which she had achieved it: magic. _Her_ magic.

Before she could reach out to Killian, a horrible stench distracted her, for though she had turned the sea serpent to stone, the sludge it had previously spewed remained in slippery piles along the roof.

"Swan?" Killian asked tentatively. "Was that... did you just use magic?"

"Yeah," she replied breathlessly. "Did you try to kill a sea serpent with an axe?"

"Only as a last resort."

She looked about the roof for any other weapon that the monster may have parried, but all she saw was the sludge it left in its wake, still fuming in the afternoon air. It was possible that whatever the plan Killian had enacted had been buried under the foul-smelling stuff. 

He answered her unspoken question, "I meant to poison the beast."

"Poison?"

"Aye," he replied as he raised his right forearm to reveal a long cut. "I wrapped a number of unsavory things with dried meat and my blood to entice it. Threw them off the highest parapet. I watched as it gobbled each one up. I had rather hoped it would die and sink to the bottom of the ocean."

"Instead it attacked?" she asked. 

"Aye," he said. "It climbed the lighthouse and vomited up half its stomach."

"So you went to the roof with an axe," she said playfully.

"The serpent decided the battleground," he replied defensively. "Besides, the bloody thing attacked my bloody lighthouse, and - "

He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of her wry smile. It caught him entirely off-guard, more so than her sudden ability to wield magic from another lifetime. She seemed... amused.

Truth be told, Emma struggled to suppress the laugher budding inside her. It was borne from the mental image of Killian battling a vomiting sea serpent. When she realized that her glee had not gone unnoticed, the urge to laugh out loud only grew the stronger for it.

"Are you laughing at my expense, Swan?"

The mock indignation of his voice was like a match struck aflame, igniting her mirth, which unleashed an old tension in her body inspired by a whole lifetime forgotten and remembered all over again. Soon she was doubled over with laughter so deep that she could hardly breathe, which only added to her euphoria.

"What is so bloody funny?"

She couldn't reply, and in concern, Killian knelt down beside her and put his hand to her forehead.

"Perhaps the monster's vomit is affecting you," he suggested.

"No, no," she replied haltingly, the soreness of her cheeks slowing her words. "I thought... it was spitting poison... but it was - was - "

"Aye," he said curtly, cottoning on. "What's gotten into you, Swan?"

He was loathed to ask her, for the very last thing he wanted was to snuff out her newfound joy. But between the serpent-turned-statue and his failed attempt to poison the beast, he found no humor, only relief.

"Henry," she replied.

"Henry..."

"My son, Henry."

How could he have forgotten the lad? For as soon as he heard her speak his name, all those moments he shared with Henry surged: explaining how to navigate by the stars, helping him to evade flying monkeys, and the old Wookie prisoner gag, whatever the bloody hell that was.

"Killian."

His name on her lips brought him back to the tenuous here and now. She had gotten so close to him when he was lost in his memories that he could feel her breath on his skin ever so faintly. He found the proximity exhilarating. Somehow, she blotted out the ugliness around him, eclipsing even the sun.

She touched his left arm above the holster that held his hook in place, and he felt a power pass between them as she raised the other arm and waved it dramatically.

A great shining wind swirled around the serpent's sick piles, vanishing them in an instant.

"You're bloody incredible, Swan," he mumbled quietly.

She touched his face, and a tingling sensation graced his cheeks, a tiny remnant of her magic lingering on her fingertips. She looked into his eyes and saw him - truly saw him - for the first time since they met in this life. He could see the hope and wonderment in her as well as the painful revelation, the panic, and the desperate desire to run.

What's more, he could see her fight those negative impulses with everything she had.

Unwilling to wait another second, she pulled him into a deep, long kiss that started as a soft rain and grew into a roaring fire. All he could do was bring her closer and return her passion in equal and rising measure.

Thus, the wind swept over Killian Jones and Emma Swan as they embraced atop Stagrock Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nereids were the fifty daughters of Nereus and Doris. They represent the beauty of the sea, and often, they were friendly and even aided sailors.
> 
>  **Author's notes** : My apologies for this chapter being a week late. I've been sick, so proofing and posting chapters is taking me much longer than usual. I will do my best to post at least one chapter a week, though I hope to get back on track with posting two chapters each week.


	22. Aphrodite's Reprise

The softest shift in the air marked the moment, which otherwise unfolded without outside observance or commemoration. Killian tightened his embrace, bringing Emma impossibly close, his only thought to feel every part of her. Her hands disappeared into his hair, then trailed down his back, pure muscle memory fueling her motion.

How long the kiss went on, neither would ever know with certainty, but its passion was boundless and its depths stretched beyond any description words could dare muster. It was the perfect arrangement, the kind that transcended itself, such that the whole became more than the sum of its parts, and as with such moments, it seemed to occur all at once, quickening into life and ending after far tool little time had passed.

They departed the roof and descended to the Keeper's chamber in a haze of bliss and heat. Before he could offer to escort her to her quarters, she fell upon him in a whirlwind of touch and taste, and all his thoughts fell away as she swept him up in a wanton wheel of tongue and lips, casting all notion of chivalry into soon-to-be-forgotten shadow. He cared nothing for the ways and expectations of the world, and especially not now, when the woman of his dreams covered him in perfervid affection. He would drink in every sensation as if it were his last.

She wrapped herself up in him for the relief of finally, finally finding him, and for the sake of burning out those miserable days that brought them to this realm. Whenever those dreadful memories reared up like vicious serpents, his scent, his breath, the undeniable reality of his flesh dispatched them, replacing the fear and darkness they brought with a scorching flame. Each moment - even those blighted by abrupt pain from her injured arm - filled up the empty space between the then and now, between this realm and the last.

Now that they both finally knew who they were - who they had been - it was entirely right that this was the first act they'd perform together.

But neither could smother the memories of those last shared moments in that past life. They kept surging to the surface.

_"Killian, you can't do this," she pleaded._

_"We both know there's no other way," he said. "We have to hurry. The Darkness won't stay trapped in Excalibur much longer."_

_"I can't," she said. Then, as if it just occurred to her, she added, "It should be me."_

_"Your family needs you. If anyone deserves to go to the Underworld, it's me," he countered. "I was weak, so let me make up for it now by being strong."_

Emma gasped as tears pricked her eyes. She grappled with the heavy coat he wore, casting it to the floor so she could bury her face in the freshly exposed nape of his neck. She feathered her lips into every bare inch of his skin.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into each kiss.

Though he heard her many apologies, he refused to respond and refused to accept them. He hardly knew what to say, for she had no cause for regrets. He, on the other hand, should be begging her forgiveness, forever seeking her absolution for the darkness he had been too weak to resist.

He gently tipped her chin up to bring her into another long, deep kiss, punctuated by the shortest of pauses where he searched her face. He delicately imparted his message with words spoken without voice or breath.

"No, love, I'm the one to be sorry."

What else was there for him to express? The depth of his guilt was matched only by the breadth of his regret, and he had no means to express any of it to her. He faltered in his ministrations as remorse overcame him, humbling him far more than his years of servitude as the friendless Keeper of Stagrock Light.

His eyes went to hers, desperate to connect to any part of himself that was good, honest, or strong.

_"I don't want to lose you," Emma said through her tears._

_"And I don't want to lose you," he replied. "But you have to let me go. Let me die a hero. That's the man I want you to remember, please..."_

_She trembled when she spoke, "I love you."_

_"I love you, too."_

His pause felt like a short eternity. She wondered if he changed his mind and had no way to tell her, but then his impossibly blue eyes met hers and turned that thought to bitter folly. The abiding agony of that last, horrible parting could not be denied.

She dragged his sweat-drenched and torn shirt off over his head. Her hands explored his firm flesh, reveling in its warmth, its completeness. She had worried that some ill remembrance of his last living moments awaited her, but his shape and contours were perfect, marred only by scars she had long-since come to know back in Storybrooke.

He covered her hand with his own, a silent sign of his love and support, but it inspired a lump in her throat.

_Emma raised Excalibur, but between the Darkness raging to escape the sword and the pain coursing through her heart, the weapon trembled in her hands. She couldn't do it. She couldn't harm him. Not **him**._

_"It's okay," he said to her._

_Even in his last minutes, he cared for and comforted her. She gripped the hilt tightly, and with shaking hands, she drove the sword through his chest. It felt like she was piercing her own heart with it, and her misery increased tenfold when his neck wound - the one left by Excalibur back in Camelot, the one that condemned him to death - reappeared, as if she needed a reminder that this was the end, that these minutes would make up the last memories they'd ever have together._

_After everything she'd done to save him, she had lost him anyway._

"Emma," he said, jerking her out of the mire of her thoughts. "It's okay, love."

She choked at the echo of his words of comfort to her. It wasn't okay. Failing to save him, losing him to the Darkness, killing him... none of it was right. None of it was okay.

"It's not," she said. "Killian, I'm so, so sorry."

"No, love," he replied. "I'm sorry. I was the weak one."

"I was selfish."

"Perhaps," he said gently. "But you did it to save me."

"I lost you anyway."

"And, then you found me."

"I'll always find you," she replied.

"Aye, to the ends of the bloody world," he said. "Even here."

"Did you think I'd let the Underworld keep us apart?"

"I never thought..." he said, stumbling over his words. "I never thought I'd ever love someone like you, let alone earn your love in return. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

Her hands smoothed over his bared chest and neck so that she could caress his face. She looked at him as if he were the most precious person in all the world. Her eyes were shining with compassion and simultaneously full-up with desire, such that only the faintest sliver of jade outlined the deep darkness of her pupils.

"Don't ever say that," she said "Don't you dare."

"Emma, I'm - "

"I love you," she interrupted. 

He replied, "Aye, and I love you."

He didn't want the events of the immediate future to unfold as an act of contrition or as some kind of leverage for a pardon of his innumerable sins. If any word properly described the combined intent of his mind, body, and spirit, it would be devotion, his absolute and all-consuming devotion for the amazing woman before him.

Killian wrapped one arm around her lower back while his good hand cupped the back of her neck. He stepped in, closing the minute gap between them, as he ever-so-gently tipped her head back, the familiar motions flowing one after another in a cascade of blissful decadence and the slipstream brought their lips together in a rush of sighs. He poured every iota of himself into the kiss, which began sweet and light and gradually built into a passionate coupling of noses, tongue, and teeth.

When breath demanded it, they split apart, leaning against one another for support. That was when he noticed that she was in naught but her undergarments, and the pool of discarded clothing at her feet told him all he needed to know of her disrobing.

He was so enamored of her beauty that he forgot how to speak.

Emma gulped down the air, ferociously recapturing her breath while she forced herself to return to the moment. The unbridled bliss of their kiss had catapulted her into a magnificent haze of pleasure that ignited a thousand memories of their ilk, sweeping her out of the here-and-now. As incredible as it had been, she didn't want to fall into like patterns or the muscle memories of some other life. She desired to greet and relish every sensation anew so that she could memorialize each one and, in so doing, craft new avenues to ecstasy.

She unbuckled his belt and loosed his trousers, which he discarded carelessly before lifting her off her feet, bringing her close so skin touched skin, their bodies separated only by underwear, paltry fabric soaked with sweat and other finer, sweeter juices.

The kissed like opposites colliding and complementary: flame and stone, water and sand, earth and spirit. Her hands explored his contours as he carried her to his bed, before both came up under the back of his head, deepening their entwine even further.

He groaned into her mouth, but it wasn't for the sake of pleasure. No, his was a lament, for he despise the thought of releasing her, even for the few seconds required to lay her out and join her on the bed. Any separation felt like an insult, another jab at an old wound, just one more attempt of the world trying to come between them.

And he wouldn't have any bloody more of that nonsense.

He turned around and sat on his bed, allowing Emma to kneel over him without relinquishing their embrace. His arms freed, he slipped off her bra, revealing her pert, cream-colored beasts and perfectly rose-colored nipples. His thumb carefully grazed one, testing its firmness and finding it hard as diamond. Unable to stop himself, he lowered his head to her chest and lapped at the other nipple with his tongue all while maintaining eye contact.

Her hands raked through his hair as he scattered her wits with his nimble tongue and dexterous fingers. A moan bided its time under her chin, lurking until the pleasure became too much. It ached for release, but she bit it back, holding it in, because she knew that once she started, she'd never stop.

On some level, both were aware of themselves, particularly of how broken and splintered they felt. Whatever magic had mired them with these strange, new lives had left them raw and bruised and hungry for a taste who they had been. The longing, happily, would not remain unfulfilled, though perhaps things unfolded so subtly as to be imperceptible.

Emma tugged as his hair, and when he refused to abate his ministrations, she pulled so hard that his lips broke away with a wet _pop_. She went high up on her knees and bent over him and attacked his lips with her own, determined to taste every corner of his mouth. A maddening passion drove her to continue, to tower above him and control the kiss, that she might chase the old demons away and allow her to indulge in the pleasure afforded her without the dredges of guilt and fear grasping at her heels.

And he could sense it, her desperation to outrun the inescapable truth of the past, and he felt it fueling her passion, pushing her forward. There was no mistaking it, for his mind and soul were like a mirror to hers. She surged forward to forget, just as he submitted to her unrelenting power on the hope that he could lose himself and all his petty vices in her.

But he wouldn't. He didn't want this to be an act of repentance, and neither did he wish Emma to live it as an escape or forgetfulness potion.

He flipped them, though it was only partly successful in execution. He wound up nearly spinning off the bed and breaking their fantastic kiss, so he took the moment to discard the last of his clothing. If the hasty change inspired questions, she didn't ask them. 

Her heart was pounding hard in her ears, so she adjusted herself, shifting up the bed with a few elegant scoots until she was sprawled out across the pillows. She relaxed into the softness the sheets, the comfort of the bed, with long, deep breathes easing every muscle. 

Killian regained his footing and stood before her stark naked and his cock hard against his stomach, his lean form pleasing and familiar. She propped herself up on her elbows for a better look, her mouth literally watering over the sight of him, but she relented when he joined her on the bed, sensually crawling over her legs with eyes so earnest they made her heart ache.

He smiled at her. It was a mischievous grin that sent a thrill up her spine. She lifted her hips up to move closer, but he was too swift for her. He snatched her underwear and slipped it down to her thighs faster than she could blink. He stopped around her knees, his expression akin to a child caught red-handed with pilfered candy, and she gave him an encouraging grin.

Killian continued to remove her undergarment, breathing in the warm scent of her desire as he dragged the fabric over her calves and past her ankles. He carelessly tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed somewhere beyond the bed.

Had it really been so long that they'd forgotten the fun they could have together?

She wrapped her legs around his midsection, and a waft of her delicious smell covered him before she ground her wet core against him. He growled at the marvelous friction, the splendid coupling of her skin against his. 

She wanted to welcome all of him, even the parts he hated and kept hidden from the world. Emma brought herself up to an semi-sitting position and turned her attentions to his hook, deftly removing the brace that held it in place, revealing the jagged scarring on his forearm. The hook fell to the floor as she smoothed her fingers over the slightly inflamed tissue before she brought it to her lips and began feather-light kisses along it, working her way up his arm toward his shoulder. She coyly avoided his eye as she focused on her ministrations, stealing only momentary glances of his face. 

Her lips curled wickedly when she caught a glimpse of him worrying his bottom lip, his teeth like the tide, surely but slowly eroding the shore. When she leaned over him to drag her teeth over the edge of his shoulder, he released a harsh grunt of a breathe, his way of holding back a moan.

She decided to take that as a challenge. Emma continued to his collarbone, her teeth and lips tenderly scoring his skin, meticulously branding him as her own.

She indulged in the sharp, musky smell that was him. It was so different in this life, yet she still detected the undeniable core of Killian Jones: a tang of metal with the slightest hints of salt and sweet. His life here as the Keeper had left is mark upon him, even if only in scent, erasing all but the faintest whiff of metal and replacing it with the salt, salt sea.

His left arm came up under her lower back, supporting her and tugging her closer. When she looked up at him, his hand cupped her chin and, with the slightest pressure, lifted her face.

The anguish she witnessed in his eyes contradicted the thundering pound of his heart in his chest and the rigidness of his length mere inches away from her breasts. Her hand reflexively went to his cheek, caressing the coarse hairs of his beard.

He closed the distance between their lips and brought her into a searing kiss. Skin touched skin, and everything else fell away: from Northedge to the lighthouse, down to his inner demons. There was nothing in this realm save for him and Emma, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Killian fell forward, pinning her beneath him as he adjusted, their bodies shifting in tandem to accommodate and to support, to impede and to compromise. It was a glorious luxury, entangling with one another, his supple, solid contours against her firm yet yielding flesh.

He breathed in the tantalizing bouquet of her sex, a telling sign of her readiness, and his hand moved as if drawn to the warm promise between her legs. He regained control, however tenuous, of his faculties and directed his hand to her inner thighs, where he traced the softest, gentlest circles as he ascended an inch, only to abandon the convulsing muscle to its perfect twin on the other side. She groaned, but his fingers persisted in the establish momentum, a steady and painstaking pace. He couldn't prevent himself from smiling when she shifted her hips down to increase the friction herself.

His Swan, always so impatient.

He shouldn't have been surprised when her protests escalated with a sharp nip to his lower lip, but his heart persisted in a fog of euphoric denial, unable to accept the present circumstances as anything other than a dream, a wish, a fairy tale. Thus, his internal chart, though built upon the rock foundation of his love for her, faltered ever so slightly, and he growled his displeasure at the failure of the one thing that constantly informed him of everything she required, aspired, and desired, no matter how fleetingly.

She heard his growl as escalating passion rather than a vocalization of an internal grievance, but before she could react, his fingers slipped through her slick folds as his thumbs grazed her swollen clit, sending rippling shockwaves of pleasure throughout her center. She released a moan that was half his name, half a gasp of surprise as her hips snapped forward.

His fingers gently stroked her core, gathering up her natural lubrication before plunging two inside her without resistance. The wet tightness was enough to make his mouth dry and his heart pound even more wildly than before. The thought that she needed nothing in the way of preparation drove him mad with want. 

He found his body surging forward and covering hers as he brought their lips together, all hope of self control lost in the wake of his urge to feel every inch of her. Emma's hands started tangled in his hair but quickly descended his back until they reached the sinewy muscle of his buttocks, pulling him closer, but serving only to press his hardened cock against her stomach.

He removed his hand, and she whined at the loss as she wrapped her legs around him again. They broke apart to catch their breath, hearts pounding hard in unison, and he took the moment to take all of her in from the flushed skin to the absolutely sinful look on her on face. She was lost in his eyes blown wide with desire, drowning in the sensation and still wanting more.

Killian shifted away to line himself up, and though lust fogged his thoughts, he had enough presence of mind to remember that they hadn't shared such intimacies in a very long time. It would be poor form to move to quickly and risk her pleasure in the process.

His momentary pause spurred her to yank him into another kiss, her tongue ecstatically playful. He allowed her the reins, enjoying her lavish attentions for a spell.

Then he pressed into her, slowly and deliberately, though it took every ounce of control and restraint that he had not to plunge deep and hard into her warmth. By the time he bottomed out, his wits were scattered to the wind, and he broke the kiss with a deep moan as his eyes slammed shut.

She groaned with him, overwhelmed now that the ache inside her had been satisfied. Then a new need arose to have him moving within her, to feel the push and pull of their flesh rhythmically pulsing together. She knew he had only stopped to allow her to adjust to his girth and length, but her body had known his before and thus require no interval. So she palmed his cheek, stroking his skin until his eyes fluttered opened.

"Killian," she whispered. "It's okay."

He exhaled a breath that he hadn't been aware he was holding as he withdrew at a measured pace before sliding back in. He kept the pace slow and even as his lips covered hers, enabling his mouth to devour hers.

She impelled speed by meeting his thrust with her own, her drag and his pull increasing the friction exponentially. Soon their raw physical connection overtook their wits, and they reeled in pleasure while reciting the other's name like a prayer. They were slick with sweat and their skin turned ruddy as they panted for breath, both ready to feel the zenith of their ecstasy but neither willing to submit to its siren call.

Emma's back bowed off the bed as she came abruptly, her walls clenching uncontrollably around Killian's member as she climaxed, delivering him to the door of his own apex of elation, complete with stars exploding behind his eyes. His hips continued to snap erratically as he emptied himself into her.

He collapsed forward on his forearms, his muscles fatigued and spent from the effort. Though she remained in a fog of bliss, she realized his predicament and effortlessly flipped them so she was on top. Her hands explored his reddened skin as they settled back into their trembling bodies.

Though both thought to express regret over past mistakes, as they basked in the afterglow, all notion of sorrow and its many painful cousins: guilt, remorse, shame, loss, and disgrace.

It didn't take long before their bodies cooled and their sweat left them shivering, so Killian gathered the blankets and covered them as Emma nestled into his chest. Their breathing returned to normal, and soon their inhales and exhales were perfectly in sync. 

Too tired to speak, a heaviness settled over them, weighing down their limbs. With a final kiss, they said a wordless goodnight as a deep, abiding darkness called them into the world of dreams. And though neither was conscious enough to speak, both knew that their was no danger, for now that they were together, there was nothing that they couldn't overcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aphrodite was the Greek goddess of love, beauty, and pleasure.
> 
> The title of this work, _Lament of the Asphodels_ , is based upon one of the many locales within the afterlife according to Greek mythology. Those who lived heroic lives were awarded a place in the paradise of Elysium, and those who were judged as evil were sent to suffer in Tartarus. But souls who had lived ordinary or neutral lives often went on to the Asphodel Meadows for repose; in some accounts, it was a beautiful, untouched place of passivity and even pleasantness. Other sources, however, maintained that before entering the Asphodel Meadows, souls had to drink from the river Lethe, which mired them in forgetfulness and caused them to lose their identities.
> 
> Asphodels are a white flower ( _asphodelus albus_ ) that the Greeks associated with mourning and death. It was believed believed that they facilitated the transition to the afterlife.
> 
>  **Author's note** : Sorry it took so long to get this chapter ready, but hopefully it was worth the wait! This chapter reveals when the canon-divergence occurs and where (which realm) Emma and Killian currently reside. As far as who cast the curse on them or what the couple may face next... well, that will be made clear in the next chapters. I hope you've enjoyed this latest installment.


	23. A Nocturne for Morpheus

Killian shouldered the rowboat, determined to bring it aboard by way of the gangplank. It was heavier than he anticipated, so his body swayed, naturally battling to maintain balance. The rigor of his task calmed his mind, but there remained a single, nagging thought that refused to come to form. It was not enough to distract nor to hinder him, but he also failed to quell it.

His trek was mercifully short, and beyond the cargo above his head, nothing encumbered him. Stowing the vessel became the work of a few fleeting seconds - the blink of an eye - and he reveled in his success by closing his eyes and breathing in the salty air of the sea.

Apart from the stubborn nag of unformed concern churning within, another concern arose, borne from naught but instinct. Even so, he struggled to know its cause, and when no clarity came to him to lift the fog, he swallowed the first viable possibility that occurred to him: danger.

Though it felt like the wrong conclusion, he drew his cutlass and moved about the deck. His search ended when his eyes fell upon the gangplank, which was a startlingly white hue. Surely it hadn't been that bright before. He couldn't properly recall its color nor anything else about it, but some attribute or another had attracted his attention.

"You seem confused, Captain," a young woman said.

She was beautiful and splendidly dressed; though her garments were strange to his eye, it was quite clear they came from a fine and rare stock. Her dark hair contrasted the beauty of her eyes, and she appeared perfectly content standing on the dock with a stack of books in her arms.

Killian knew her, but her name didn't spring to mind. Somehow, seeing her made him feel shame.

 _Her name is Belle,_ he thought to himself.

"Aye," he replied. "One of those mornings."

"Don't you mean afternoon?" she asked with a smile.

"I suppose," he said.

"You know, you might try the dark door," she said.

"Ah, I've had enough darkness for all my lifetimes," he replied. 

"A dark door doesn't necessarily lead to darkness."

_What the devil is she talking about? This is all wrong._

"Perhaps," he said, hesitating. "There's nothing wrong with the light path."

He waved his hand over the brilliant gangplank to indicate it as an example. It seemed reasonable enough.

Belle's face fell. It was more than a frown; it was as if his words insulted her deeply. Her brow knit and every line on her face creased twice over.

"Beauty deceives you," she spat.

So harsh were her words that they seemed to ring in his ears, louder than the roaring of his blood. The shame he recognized earlier clenched, doubling down and precipitating a kind of panic.

He had to make things right. He to apologize to Belle. He had to make it right.

Killian raced off the ship, his boots no doubt scuffing up the perfect surface of the gangplank as he disembarked, and though she had not been more than a few arm lengths from him only moments before, when he reached the dock, she was nowhere to be seen. Undeterred, he set a brisk walking pace inland.

He would make this right.

* * *

Emma alternated between swiveling in her chair and fidgeting with one of the writing utensils she kept at her desk. The lull in crime should've presented itself with benefits innumerable, yet here she was, procrastinating to avoid the dregs of paperwork.

She stood up and tidied, intent on not wasting another second. She dusked the window frames, revealing that they were, in fact, a dark color, rather than a meddling grayish brown. She adjusted everything around her desk before collecting the trash, tying off the rubbish liners, and stepping out to leave them in the hall.

She lingered on the threshold of her office, leaning against the pearly white frame that luckily required no tending at the moment. It felt as if she were free to do nothing, so long as she remained within the liminal space that was neither her office nor the hallway outside it. With a deep breath, she shouldered the thought and returned to the mundane grindstone of her daily life.

No sooner had she sat down than she stood bolt upright, her body reacting entirely on instinct.

"Didn't mean to startle you," a woman said.

Emma knew this woman. She was young with long dark hair and a red cloak that was eerily familiar.

"Sheriff's reflex, Ruby," she replied, the name appearing on her lips before her mind had time to recall it.

"Well, then, I guess that makes you as sharp as ever," Ruby said. "Anything for me to do?"

"Paperwork," she replied as she returned to her seat.

"Your favorite," Ruby quipped. "You know, if you need a break, go out the dark door. I can manage things here."

Everything inside of Emma trembled. Something was very wrong, and she was almost certain it was the words Ruby had just spoken.

"What did you say?" she asked.

"I can manage things here," Ruby repeated.

"No, before that."

"Uh, I said, if you need a break, go out the dark door - "

"What dark door?" Emma interrupted. "And what does it matter which door I use?"

The tension thickened the air, making it a labor to breathe. It seemed to happen over time yet quickly: Ruby's face when from a charming smile to a snarl. There was a fierceness to her that was quite unnatural, even for a werewolf as potent as she.

Emma shut her eyes, thinking hard on what she might've said to offend her friend, and a moment later when she opened them, Ruby was gone. She jumped up from her chair, her mind reeling with fear and doubt. What had she just done? Where had Ruby gone?

She had to find her and explain herself. She needed to apologize, or else... or else... She didn't wait for her thoughts to find resolution. She sprung into action, grabbing her coat off the rack as she raced out her shining office door. She needed to find Ruby.

She would make things right.

* * *

Killian was not acquainted with the town, yet his feet seemed to know the path they tread before they fell. He weaved through the scattered houses and shops to the road, which was so smooth that it seemed to be hewn from a single, enormous stone.

He kept to the edge of the road, for a throng of people lingered here, there, everywhere. He walked with his back ramrod straight and a gate of authority. So stern and commanding was his countenance that those before him scrambled away, and anyone who saw it would remark that everyone reacted to him as they would to a king, making way with an air of deference.

He registered nothing odd about their actions, for what citizen would not tremble upon seeing a dastardly rapscallion like the pirate Captain Hook?

He stopped in an area where the road was flanked on either side by shops. There was no sign of his quarry in the swarm of milling masses, and he was fast losing patience. He scanned his surroundings and then darted into some kind of tavern or eating establishment.

"Can I help you?" an old woman asked.

 _Granny. Her name is Granny,_ he thought to himself, though for the life of him, he wasn't sure how he knew her.

"Can I help you?" Granny repeated.

"Yes, I - "

Killian's words caught in his throat. What was he doing here? Why had he come all this way from... wherever he was before he came here?

Granny continued, "If you're hungry, you can take a seat at the bar. You don't seem like the table sort."

"Indeed," he replied.

He sat on the stool farthest from the door, doing everything in his power to obscure his confusion, but he quickly lost focus. He couldn't help the thoughts that came to him.

Why had he come inside this tavern, of all places? Perhaps it was bewitched to draw people in and bamboozle them so that they'd forget their intentions upon entry.

"You gonna order something?" Granny asked from behind the counter.

"Your best whiskey," he replied immediately.

"We're not that kind of establishment," she replied. 

"Your best tea, then."

"Coming right up."

Killian became so mired in his mind that he failed to notice when the tea arrived, but he happily poured from the pot in front of him and drank absentmindedly.

"Who are you?"

He turned to see a woman with long blond hair and green eyes. Under normal circumstances, he would've approved of her forwardness, but this woman was wearing a badge on her hip, indicating her position with law enforcement of some kind.

"I could ask you the same thing, love," he replied.

"Listen, buddy," she began. "I know everybody in this town, and everybody knows me. If I don't know you, you don't belong."

"Not much for visitors, then?"

"We don't get visitors," she replied, her posture changing from protective to aggressive. "Who are you?"

"I won't have it said that I'm anything less than a gentlemen," he replied. "My name is Captain Killian Jones, though most know me by my more colorful moniker, Hook."

"Captain Hook?" she repeated, her voice telling him that she had heard of his legend.

"So you have heard of me, have you?"

"Yeah, in children's books," she replied. "Seriously, buddy, who are you?"

"I've already said," he replied. "I do believe, in polite conversation, an exchanges of names is customary."

"Sheriff Emma Swan," she said quickly. "What are you doing here, Hook?"

"If you don't mind, it's Captain."

"That's Sheriff to you."

He smiled. She was fiery.

"Very well, Sheriff," he began. "I found meself parched in this quaint town, and this seemed the best place to slake my thirst."

She smiled at him, yet her cheery composure did nothing to conceal the mistrust that lingered in her eyes nor the authority that radiated from her as rays of light from the sun. She sat on the stool next to his, giving the air of familiarity, but it wasn't for his benefit.

"You found yourself here?" she repeated. "In Storybrooke?"

"Curious name," he commented.

"The last thing I need is trouble," she said. "Maybe you should finish your tea and be on your way."

"I'll be sure to do that," he said tersely.

"You found her," someone said. 

The speaker was the woman on the dock, Belle. How could he have forgotten her? Hadn't it only been a moment ago?

"Belle, you know this guy?" Emma asked.

"You found him," a second woman said before Belle could reply.

"Ruby?" Emma asked. "I thought you were back at the station."

Killian recognized the second woman as well as her name, but like Belle, he couldn't recall anything about their previous acquaintance. A nagging sensation started in his stomach.

He had no way of knowing that, at that very moment, Emma felt the very same thing.

There was a long period of silence that was deeply uncomfortable, but nobody seemed willing to move. For all intents and purposes, it was as if no one even breathed, least the air from their lungs stir the stillness.

"Are you two all right?" Emma finally asked.

Neither responded, and the tension became more acute. For the life of him, he couldn't explain what was unfolding.

"The dark gateway," Granny said from behind them.

"What the hell is going on?" Emma snapped.

"If you ever want to get out of here," Granny added, as if it answered the question.

"I take it this isn't the norm," Killian said to Emma.

"No, not really," she replied quietly.

He downed the last of his tea even though it scalded his mouth. There was no reason for him to stay, though he suspected he couldn't recall one even if he had had one before. In one graceful move, he stood up from his seat and made for the door with no attempt from the sheriff to stop him. He was ready to reach for the pearly-white handle when, suddenly, both Belle and Ruby blocked his way. 

He registered the oddity. He not only failed to notice both women move in any way, but he had been much closer to the door only moments prior.

"The dark gate," Ruby said. 

"Aye, I'm sure it's quite lovely, but this establishment's door is white," he replied lightly. "Perhaps you should take it up with the owner."

Though it was far from gentlemanly, he went to push past both ladies and found them akin to pure marble pillars. Neither budged.

"All right, buddy, that's it," Emma said grabbing his good arm and cuffing his right hand to her left.

"What the bloody hell is going on here?"

"What you just did," she explained. "That's called assault."

"Assault?" he repeated. "This is madness - "

"Don't test me," Emma interrupted. "Let's go."

She dragged him behind her, but Ruby and Belle still blocked the door.

"Come on, guys," Emma said. "I've got to take him across the street."

She didn't want anyone to know how nervous she felt. She knew something odd had been going on - all day, maybe longer - yet the persistent feeling had been drowned out a little more with every mundane second that passed. She wanted to scream at herself for not trusting her instincts. She knew that never ended well.

Oddly, the unease she experienced was less about the tall, dark, and handsome stranger she detained and more about some of her closest friends acting as if they were under the throes of magic. There was no life in their eyes, and they seemed fixed in place like stone.

"The dark gate," Belle said.

Whatever the hell was going on here, she had to assume the involvement of the mysterious man with one hand. She could ask Granny for a key to one of the smaller suites; it would work as both an interrogation chamber and a cell. Likewise, she could've hauled him into one of the back rooms, as they received little to no traffic. In fact, there were dozens of options that enabled Emma to keep her arrestee in custody without leaving the diner, yet every particle of her being was telling her to get the hell out while she still had the chance.

She didn't know why, and she didn't care. She whipped around, dragging the man she cuffed with her, and marched through the restaurant, straight to the back door.

The door was locked.

In fact, it was chained shut with two padlocks and a deadbolt. The dark wooden frame was obscured by the gray chains that covered it.

"Damnit," she grunted. 

"I should like to compliment the owner of this establishment," Killian said. "The dedication to security - "

"Cut it out!" she interrupted.

"I was merely offering my services," he said, holding up his hook. "I happen to have a way with locks."

"You take that one," she said, pointing her left hand at the smaller of the two. 

He began to pick at it with his hook, keenly aware when her left hand grabbed hold of him. She used him to balance herself as she picked up her right leg and kicked the lock. She continued over and over again until it broke, mere seconds after his did the same. 

Tossing both aside, she removed the chains and undid the dead lock, then thrust the door open. Without thinking, she threw all her weight into leaping forward, and it was enough momentum to overcome her quarry's attempt to remain inside.

For right as she opened the door, Killian had seen the darkness that lay beyond it. There was nothing there but shadow; not even the stars dared to linger in that blackness. Whatever this door led to, it wasn't where his captor thought. He tried to warn her, but she dove in immediately. He yelled as he tried to ground himself, but he was a moment too late. He threw his hook out and caught the edge of the wall, just enough to keep him from plummeting inside. He looked up to see three women staring at him with empty eyes: Granny, Ruby, and Belle.

"Help!" he shouted.

His eyes must've been mistaken, for each one of their faces transmuted into that of someone else. They were dark and ancient and smiling.

"Confess," all three of them whispered. "Confess."

That was the last thing he saw before the was ripped away and drawn into the screeching whirl of nothingness beyond the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morpheus was the Greek god of dreams who carried a horn and ivory box full of dreams, crafted from the two materials to symbolize the two types of dreams that the Greeks believed existed:
>
>> For two are the gates of shadowy dreams, and one is fashioned of horn and one of ivory. Those dreams that pass through the gate of sawn ivory deceive men, bringing words that find no fulfillment. But those that come forth through the gate of polished horn bring true issues to pass, when any mortal sees them."  
> \- Homer's _The Odyssey_ as translated by Arthur Murray
> 
> **Author's note** : I realize that this chapter as a standalone might be confusing, but I am already proofing the next chapter, which clarifies events, and hope to have it up in a few days. I hope you’ve enjoyed the most recent installment. 


	24. Whispers from Dione

Emma plunged headlong into the darkness before her eyes processed the impossibility before her, and though fear scattered her wits like feathers in savage winds, her sharp reflexes did not fail her. Pain blossomed over her left wrist as her arm snapped back. Her mind failed to recognize this as the result of being handcuffed to a complete stranger, but her body spun around in an attempt to follow the motion back to the threshold to the door.

The blackness was so absolute that she feared she had gone blind, and the silence was so profound that she thought deafness had struck her, too. She could not be certain how long she lingered in the emptiness beyond the door, but it felt like hours. The ache of her arm reminded her that no matter how thick or noiseless the darkness was, she yet remained alive, aware, and able to fight it.

Then everything fell away as her arm went slack and Killian joined her beyond the threshold of the dark doorway. He, too, wondered after his senses, if some manner of magic had stolen them, for never before had they failed him so absolutely.

Both were robbed of all sensation, save for the occasional tug of the cuff against wrist when one drifted away from the other. They experienced a fleeting sense of falling before the impression of floating set in, though neither perceived water or any other substance suspending them.

The air turned deathly cold, and there was no end to the nothingness around them.

"Emma," Killian said. "Emma, can you hear me?"

She was nearly as shocked to hear something as he was to learn that he maintained the ability to speak.

"Yeah, I can hear you, Hook," she replied. 

Then the ground appeared under their feet, but their legs failed to hold them upright, as they had been so long floating and listless that they were unprepared to commit any support. They collapsed together, bodies unpleasantly colliding as they landed hard on their backsides. 

"Sonovabitch," Emma mumbled.

"I appreciate the sentiment," he said.

They were in an open field of grass that was painfully beautiful, its hue of the deepest, most impossible green that ever existed. In the distance to the south, purple and blue mountains lingered in the sky, and to the west, a thick forest appeared on the horizon. The far, far east seemed home to another flatland, a dry and unforgiving desert, while the farthest point north was a rocky shore bordering the saltiest of seas.

If the method of their arrival was a mystery, then it was only fair to refer to call their location an enigma. It was incredibly familiar and simultaneously alienating. There was nothing but the two of them for as far as the field stretched in every direction.

Confusion abated in ebbs and eddies. Where they were became less important than who they were with, and though they had fallen through nothingness as strangers, their arrival here - wherever _here_ was - proved that they had known each other for a very, very long time.

"Killian?" Emma asked.

"Aye, love," he replied. Then he corrected himself, "Emma."

The handcuffs were gone, though both would've sworn they had bound them together moments before.

"What the bloody hell is happening?" Killian asked.

"We thought that was obvious," someone answered.

Emma stepped in front of him as they both turned to see Belle, Ruby, and Granny standing only a few feet from them in the field. Though their faces remained true, their heights were all wrong. Belle's posture was stooped and haggard, and Ruby's hands appeared ancient and wrinkled.

"Who are you?" Emma demanded.

"Don't you recognize us, Emma Swan?" Belle asked, though it wasn't at all like her voice.

"You're not Belle," she replied. "And she's not Ruby, and she's not Granny. So who are you?"

"Here, you see only what you are willing to see," Not-Ruby said.

"To see us as we are, all you need to do is accept the truth," Faux-Granny said.

"The truth?" Killian repeated. "You're speaking to us, so perhaps it's best if you abandon your riddles and tell us plainly. What is going on?"

"Killian," Emma said, turning to him. "I've been here before."

"So have I," he said.

"Do you remember when?"

He shook his head, no. "In a dream," he replied offhandedly, almost in jest.

"A dream," she repeated. She turned back to the three women and asked, "We're dreaming?"

Belle, Ruby, and Granny disappeared, replaced by ancient women that some might call crones or hags, though in truth, their age granted them a deep, abiding beauty that was as unreal and impossible as the too-green grass.

"Wait, I know you," Emma said. "We've met."

"You are dreaming," Faux-Granny said. "You have been dreaming for many days."

"You'll never wake," Not-Belle said.

"Unless you confess," Not-Ruby added.

"Confess what?" Killian asked.

There was no reply.

"How have we been dreaming for days?" Emma asked.

"Duplicity," all three answered at the same time.

"We chartered an arrangement," Faux-Granny explained. "Between two parties. Ten trials to overcome in exchange for freedom."

"You are close," Not-Ruby added. "Too close."

"The other party violated the arrangement and used a spell to send you into a deep, deep sleep," Not-Belle continued. "As protectors of the agreement, we have acted on your behalf."

"If this spell is out of bounds, how did this other party arrange it?" Killian asked.

"A loophole," all three replied together.

"For the dream world is a realm where you can complete trials just like any other," Not-Belle said.

"Though you would never remember enough to do so," Not-Ruby said.

"We have intervened on your behalf, for the sake of the contract," Faux-Granny added. "And we have told you what you must do: confess. Until you both complete this trial, you will remain here, in the place that never was, from whence all prophetic dreams emanate."

"Confess what?" Emma asked.

In unison, the three shook their heads, no. 

"We have said enough," they spoke together. "Confess."

Then they vanished.

* * *

Emma and Killian remained quiet for a long time after the trio of women disappeared. There were many reasons for the silence, though the largest contributor was that here, the fog of dreams lifted more and more the longer they remained, leading them to the realization that they had undoubtedly been dreaming for far longer than due course.

Killian carried that boat to his ship dozens of times, and every iteration varied ever so slightly: the shape of the harbor, the flags flown on his ship, the arrangement of knots, and so on. Yet it was remarkably consistent when it came to the events that unfolded, always ending with him walking down the glowing white gangplank onto the dock, only to walk a short distance to a rowboat that he needed to haul aboard his ship. At the time, the dream restarted anew, and he had no perception of the many previous boats he shouldered, save for the tiredness that settled into him, as if repeating the same dream on end stirred restless into his soul.

Likewise, Emma sat at her desk undulating between tedious paperwork and dusting, only to start where she began, in a dirty sheriff's office with nothing but paper to push. The only true variations were so subtle as to be unnoticeable, such as the color of the paper or the arrangement of chairs, and yet now the variety stood out in her mind as glaring and obvious. How did she fail to notice that it had all been a dream? How did she so quickly forget that she had lived through this only moments before?

The effect of such recollections was potent enough to render even the most frivolous and verbose person mute for hours, for it came with an enormous sense of unreality. They recognized that dreams possessed their own time and logic, and those swept up in them had no choice but to abide and live within those terms. Still, doubt stalked them like a starved predator, lurking just beyond view, with confusion and derealization in its company, ready to pounce and consume the minds of the two people locked inside the world from which all true dreams stem. 

"What did they mean?" Killian asked, broaching the silence. "Ten trials? Confession?"

"I've been thinking about that," Emma replied. "Heracles murdered his wife and children in a fit of insanity induced by the goddess Hera. When his mind returned to him, he sought atonement and absolution, and he was sent to serve King Eurystheus in payment of this debt."

"The King tasked him with ten labors," Killian added, remembering the story. "Impossible tasks that no man could ever hope to do."

"Luckily, Heracles was not a man," she said. "He was part deity."

"When last I checked, neither one of us had claim to such a lineage," he said.

"I keep thinking about how they said we were close," she spoke, attempting to change the topic. "Close."

"Aye," he said. "But it means little if we're forever locked inside a dream."

"Until we confess," she whispered.

Killian could tell from the cadence of her voice that Emma knew more than he did, though she did not elaborate on the subject any further. He waited, hoping that she would illuminate him without his asking, but she said nothing. He began to wonder if her reasons were more out of selfishness than reservation.

"Confess what, Swan?" he asked, punctuating the silence with the keenness of his question. "If it is all our sins, then we'll be here for some time. Three hundred years as a pirate leaves me with no dearth of offenses."

Emma replied, "I don't know."

Technically, she hadn't lied, though the modulation of her voice betrayed her falsehood, however indirect it might have been, and there was no chance of Killian missing something so obvious.

How could she explain herself? On one hand, she didn't know who the trio of imposters were, nor did she understand their perplexing banter. On the other, there was a familiarity to them that she couldn't place, and the truth lingered behind her eyes like the quiet blackness of closed lids in the moment before sleep descends. Every time she attempted to contemplate their possible meanings, her stomach churned and her mouth went dry, for a furious dread overwhelmed her, forcing her to turn away.

She knew not what to say, so she spoke nothing at all. Facing monstrous sea beasts and vile tyrants required courage beyond what most possessed, yet now she found herself lacking enough bravery to close her eyes and face her inner demons.

"Swan?" Killian asked softly.

"I'm fine," she replied automatically.

"Aye," he said. "I've told you before you're something of an open book."

"Killian - "

"I love you," he interrupted.

It was a great relief to her in that moment moment.

"I love you, no matter what you've done," he continued, putting his hand on her shoulder.

"And I love you," she replied, clasping his hand with hers.

"Look at me," he whispered. 

Emma imagined events unfolding. She would turn to him and become lost in his cerulean eyes, and they would share a passionate kiss that would cast a pall of oblivion over every ill memory and thought she ever had. Thus, there would be nothing to confess, and so light would their souls be that they would fly into the air, free as birds incapable of sin. They would forget where they were and the peril that threatened them, and they would spend the rest of time in the resplendent and never-ending flux that existed only in the world of dreams.

She wanted that more than anything she had desired before, and once she lifted her eyes to his, she could leave their fate in the hands of Morpheus, who surely had no qualm with them or their ilk. It would be far easier than closing her eyes and facing the boiling horror that stained her heart. She breathed deeply and braced herself, for this would act would be the last choice she ever made.

"Emma?"

His voice cascaded around her and collided with her most recent thoughts, resulting in a catastrophic cacophony of internal admonishment, for in that moment, she realized that she was so terrified of the truth that she had nearly chosen to condemn them both to a realm to which neither belonged. The realization ached like a sword to the heart, and that pain gave her the strength to speak.

"I'm afraid," she said.

"Afraid of what?" he asked.

"The truth," she replied. "I can't... it's too much."

"You don't have to face it alone."

"I do."

"No, you bloody well don't," he insisted. "I'm here, Emma. We can do this together."

The burn of tears joined her trembling voice, and she swallowed hard to prevent herself from succumbing to a long, hard sob. At the very least, she owed him an explanation.

"I need to close my eyes," she said. "I mean, I think I need to close my eyes... to remember."

"And that scares you?" he asked, his voice comforting and calm.

She nodded her head, yes, for her tears finally descended her cheeks, rendering her briefly unable to speak. He brought his chest flush with her back and wrapped his arms around her, bringing her into a strong, warm hug. 

"I'll be here," he replied as he placed his head on top of hers. "I'll be with you the whole time, Swan."

Emma clasped his hand and hook in her own, desperate for a physical link to their connection and the support it provided. She couldn't afford to let her fear drive her away from doing what was right. She tried to take a deep breath, but the sob she'd been fighting made her tremble with every attempt. If not for the persistence of Killian Jones, her breath would've escaped her forever, for it was the weight of his arms bringing her closer that allowed her to draw in air deep to the seat of her soul and, in so doing, enabled her to close her eyes.

And in the darkness, she waited.

And waited.

And _waited_.

_"To prove yourself worthy, you must complete ten trials," a man had said, his voice strong and sure. "Six will be split between you and he, to be completed as three personal trials. The remaining four will be of my choosing and my design, but their resolution can be the work of either of you or both of you together."_

_"And what are the trials?" she had asked._

_"Oh, I haven't decided on the last four," the man replied casually. "Let's just say, those will depend on the circumstances. I mean, who doesn't love a surprise? But, tell you what, since I'm a good sport, I'll tell you about the one that you'll never complete."_

_"I'm listening," she had said defiantly._

_"You must admit the failure that led to this deal," he had explained. "And all the fears that obscured you from that truth. Something you've never been able to do. So how's about it, Emma Swan? Do we have an accord?"_

Emma's eyes fluttered opened, still raw and dry from the tears she could not hold back. She had sunk into Killian, leaning her weight into him as she dived into her memories, and she could feel his heart beating against her back.

"I did it because I thought I deserved something," she said. "I thought I was entitled to happiness."

"Swan?"

"I grew up an orphan who was only wanted so long as it was convenient," she continued. "The only person who ever cared about me abandoned me. At the time, it seemed like more of the same. People cared only when it suited them, and then abused my trust to benefit themselves. That was the story of my life, so when I found out I was pregnant, the first thing I thought was, this is how I change things. I'd be able to love someone who didn't have some agenda, and maybe that was all I needed. But I was in jail, and after my first appointment for prenatal care, this social worker visited me. She explained what would happen after I gave birth. Even if I was on parole, which wasn't likely, the state would take the baby away, put him with foster parents until I could prove that I could be his mother. She told me I had options."

Emma faltered, but a short squeeze from Killian was all she needed to be reassured.

"But, I knew I didn't have any options," she continued. "What would I do? I'd get out of jail, never be able to find a job, try to jump through all these hoops trying to get my kid back, and when I failed... he'd probably be too old to be adoptable. Just like I was. I didn't have to think about it. I wasn't going to let what happened to me, happen to him. I told the social worker I wanted him to be adopted, not fostered, and she said she could arrange that if that's what I wanted. After that, she visited me every month and asked me again and again, 'Is this what you really want?' And I kept telling her yes, even though it wasn't what I wanted at all. I don't know when it happen, but sometime in jail after that first meeting, I decided I couldn't be his mother, that I was foolish for thinking I could love him when nobody had ever loved me. And after I got out of jail, I never spoke about it. I gave up. I gave up on finding anyone who might care about me. I gave up on being a person. Then all of a sudden, I find everything I ever wanted. I should've been happy, but..."

"You weren't happy," he completed for her.

"No, I wasn't," she said. "First, I didn't believe it. Then... then I didn't know what to do. I spent almost thirty years of my life alone and unwanted, and none of that has ever gone away. So when you were dying in that field, you told me you couldn't handle the Darkness. You told me that you wouldn't survive being the Dark One, and I believed you. But I made you the Dark One because I thought was entitled to saving you, that I deserved something for all the suffering I had lived through for the sake of other people's mistakes. I had finally found someone who knew what it was to be lost like I was, and I deserved your love. I didn't care who paid the price, even if it was you, because I had paid dearly for everyone else. It was time somebody paid for me."

Killian said, "Emma, I - "

She interrupted, "Please, let me finish. I lived my life afraid that love was something I wasn't made for, something I couldn't do. Something I would never deserve. And when you were dying right in front of me, I told myself I was doing it for you, that you deserved to live. But I was selfish and didn't care anymore. I was tired of being the one who saved everybody and lost everything because of it. So I turned you into the Dark One, and I'm sorry, Killian... I'm... I'm sorry."

Emma had no idea if she had completed the trial, but it felt as if her heart and soul had been wrung out and wrenched in a thousand directions.

He turned her around and gently lifted her chin with his hand, and she met his azure eyes. It shouldn't have surprised her to see that his were red from tears.

"Swan, I'd tell you that you're forgiven," he said. "But I've heard nothing to forgive. A selfish choice to save another's life? Perhaps. But then why did you work so hard to save me after? You didn't give up on me. You had the entire town turned against you, all for a chance to save me from myself."

"But, Killian - "

"We are more than our worst choices," he interrupted.

She leaned into his chest and released the sob roaring inside of her. She howled into the coarse fabric of his garments, letting the rush of emotions pour out of her as they both collapsed to the ground, where a bed of flowers appeared, watered by her tears.

She cried until her eyes went dry, and they stayed slumped together for a very, very long time. 

Then the wind blew, and a cold chill was on the air that hadn't been there before.

"After the Darkness took me, I was angry," he said. "Angrier than I had ever been before... when I remembered that you had saved me, and how you saved me... and everything you had done to try to rescue me from myself. And that made me angrier, and at no one more than myself. I had spent years trying to make myself a better man, trying to win your heart, but I had only been playing the hero, lying to myself about being a good man, a man worthy of your love. I spent years winning your trust and affection, neither of which I deserved. And somehow, my greed and self-deception led the best woman I knew to use the darkest of magicks, to submit to the darkness, and for what?"

"Because I loved you," she said.

"Aye, for me," he continued. "You became the Dark One because of me. I let my anger drive me to do terrible things. I tried to focus it on the Crocodile, but it wasn't enough... nothing I could ever do to him was enough. So I lashed out at the one person I cared about most... and since I couldn't harm you directly, I went after the people you cared about most. I acted like I was angry with you, like I wanted to hurt you, but the truth of it was... it was me. I wanted to hurt myself, and the best way to do that was to act like the worst pirate I'd ever been. I told myself it was liberation, but it was more like a beat cur returning to his chains. Before the Darkness, I made myself a good man somehow, but after... I couldn't find that side of me. And I knew I could find it through loving you, but I couldn't let myself. The whole time I made my choices out to be your mistake, but the truth was, it wasn't about you at all, love. It was about me. I was undeserving and afraid, and all I could see was all the worst things I've ever done. And I'm sorry, love."

"Killian," she said, guiding his gaze down to meet his eye. "It didn't matter. In the end, you fixed it all."

He shook his head. "I wanted to die," he said simply. "Not just for the shameful acts I committed, but because of what I had driven you to do."

Emma grabbed his shoulders and drew him into a kiss, and the last thing she remembered before darkness overtook her was the soft, sweet taste of his lips on hers.

* * *

The cold seeped deep to the bone despite the many blanketed layers. Emma curled into the heat next to her, seeking comfort in skin to skin contact as much as a way to warm her core. He instinctively turned into her, drawing her closer.

The dregs of sleep still weighed heavily on the both of them, and for a short time, they both revealed in the pleasure of waking up together in the same bed, their nude bodies entwined under the comfort of the many soft, heavy covers.

Emma's eyes snapped open when she realized that she was awake, for her dreams had been most peculiar.

"Killian?" 

"Aye, love."

"Are you awake?"

"Aye, and quite concerned," he said as he reached for the heavy robe he had stowed on the bedside table. 

"About the dream?" she asked.

"The dream?" he repeated.

Emma immediately felt embarrassed for assuming her nighttime gallivant in Morpheus's domain had been true, for the sound of his voice communicated that he had no earthly idea what she was talking about.

"Never mind," she said. 

He abandoned his robe and turned back to her, concern etched on his face. "Swan?"

"It's nothing," she replied. "I had a dream with you in it, and we were stuck dreaming until we - "

"Confessed," he said, completing her sentence. "You had the dream as well?"

She nodded her head, yes.

"It was real," he said. "Perhaps that's why it's so bloody cold."

"What?" she asked. 

"You must've noticed," he continued. "This room is never cold."

He grabbed his robe and dressed quickly, and Emma made to follow him. Unfortunately, without a barrier against the frigid temperature, she fled back under the covers. That was also when she noticed that there was something in her left hand: an orb, about twice the size of a pearl. 

"I won't be long," he said.

"No, pass me some clothes," she said. "You shouldn't go alone."

He hesitated, but only for a second before he grabbed another heavy robe from the wardrobe. He also handed her a pair of heavy socks, which she donned before stepping out into the cold night air. She tucked the orb into a pocket, unsure of what Killian was so concerned about, if not the memories of the dream. 

Even with the well-insulated and slightly oversized garments, the climate was unkind to the point of painful. 

Nevertheless, she followed him down the hatch and into the snail-shell-shaped beacon room, and it was only then that she realized why the temperature was casting their shared dreaming experience to Killian's second concern. The last time she had been in this room, it was as a roaring furnace, yet now it was no warmer than the floor above it.

He peeked around the first curve, then walked beyond it. She almost followed, but she remembered the blinding light of the beacon and hesitated. 

"Bloody hell," he said as he returned. 

"Did the fire go out?" she asked.

"Swan, the Sole Beacon of Northedge was not lit by mere fire," he said. "There's a reason the Snare of Hephaestus was here. It guarded the Unending Flame."

"The Unending Flame?" she repeated. "The fire that Zeus hid from humanity as punishment?"

"Aye, the very same," he replied. "Our extended sleep allowed someone to steal it."

"Why would somebody steal it?" she asked. "And how?"

"I don't know, Swan, and it hardly matters," he replied. "Don't you understand? For the first time in millennia, the Sole Beacon of Northedge has gone dark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dione was a Titaness in Greek mythology, associated with the Oracle of Dodona, who would divine the next course of action by listening to the rustling of leaves in the sacred grove.


	25. An Imitation of Prometheus

Only a moment previous, Killian had thought it impossible for the frigid temperature to sink any deeper, yet now a stupefying cold descended upon him, transmuting his very bones to ice. He had been many things over the course of his too-long life: a Lieutenant in the King's Royal Navy, a pirate captain, a rapscallion, a villain, a man woefully struggling for redemption. Yet all those things seemed so very distant, too long ago, and for years beyond his reckoning, he acted as the Keeper of Stagrock Light, the Sole Beacon of Northedge.

He had never achieved happiness from his position and title, but the virtue of his role was the only thing in this realm that never wavered. His dedication had served him and the lighthouse well.

How many Keepers had tended the lighthouse down through the millennia? How many cowards had let it crumble to disrepair rather than face an oncoming storm? How many drunkards had let is beauty fade for their foolish indulgence? How many layabouts had neglected the finer course of their duties to while away their days without care or mindfulness? Yet out of all of them, none had failed Stagrock Light so acutely and absolutely as Killian Jones, for he had been the Keeper when the beacon fell dark, which never before happened, not in storm, plague, fog, or famine. He had sworn to his duties, and he had proven inadequate to that oath.

His face betrayed his inner turmoil, for Emma read his expression as plainly as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. She came to his side to comfort him, but she could not conceive a word to console him. Instead, she wound him in her arms and pulled him close. The act inspired a memory of their shared dream, specifically when she cried into his chest. Though she had confessed a painful truth, she didn't understand why speaking it drove her to tears. She also recalled that his confession had elicited a profound sadness, and the theft of the beacon's light touched upon that same melancholy within.

"We can light the beacon again," she said, her voice punctuating the silence.

"This lighthouse was meant to conceal and to protect the Unending Flame," he replied. "And I'm the Keeper who failed..."

"No," she said. "We were put into a deep sleep by a spell, Killian. This isn't your fault."

"Was it a spell that made me use the Snare of Hephaestus on the Stormbringer?" he asked, his words harsh. "I removed the flame's most powerful protection, and it wasn't because of any bloody spell."

"We," she corrected him. " _We_ used the snare to defeat the Stormbringer. This isn't on you. We're in this together."

"What does that even bloody mean anymore, Swan?" he asked. "In what, exactly? Who are we?"

"Killian, we're who we've always been," she said gently. "We can fix this, together."

"Where would we even begin?"

"It didn't get up and walk away," she replied. "Someone stole it, and whoever did was bound to leave a trail. All we have to do is follow it and take it back."

"Emma, the last time the Unending Flame was pilfered, it was taken from Mount Olympus," he pointed out. "The thief was no ordinary man - "

"It was Prometheus, the titan," she interrupted. "The last titan we faced is now at the bottom of the ocean."

"Indeed," he replied, thoroughly cowed by her certainty. "Shall we begin?"

* * *

Emma scoured the beacon room but found nothing that indicated the identity of any trespasser. She continued her search down the stairs and forced herself to bypass examining her own chamber, where she knew she would waste time changing into more suitable garments. She swept the midline, but there was nothing disturbed in the kitchen nor the living room. For the sake of certainty, she checked every storage closet and cupboard as she descended to the basement, and it confirmed that the thief was mission-oriented and likely went straight for the Unending Flame.

Killian had retired to his chambers on the pretext of finding information about the beacon, specifically who might want to steal it. After his initial floundering questions, he had put on a strong show of support for Emma, but he had misgivings that refused to abate. She believed that they could go about this as they had back in Storybrooke, but everything they knew about this realm told them that those methods would fail.

He doubted neither her investigational skills nor her ability to best any foe. No, his reservations were entirely about himself, for he was a weak man. He always had been, even from a child, giving in so easily to his basest impulses and his silly whims. Had it not been for Liam, he would've lived a short and brutish life before dying in an unremarkable bar fight. When his brother died, he became a scallywag, so embracing his inner darkness was a way of life, or rather just another excuse to let his weaknesses govern his choices. He had lived a loathsome and lonely life in this realm, yet here, he had always chosen the right thing and taken the hard path. It wasn't until the memories of his old life began leaking into this one, polluting it, that he faltered.

No, his self-pity and reprimands served only as a distraction from the horrors that truly haunted him. While in Morpheus's world, the three women who supposedly intervened on their behalf had said that ten trials must be completed for freedom, but he was no fool. What liberty could he hope for?

He had sacrificed himself to rid the world of the Darkness forever, and the moment before he died, he sensed the winds changing, drawing the power of every Dark One who ever lived to none other than the Crocodile. He supposed it was only fitting that a villain like himself would experience a final, crushing defeat on death's door rather than dying like a hero. Perhaps it was fitting punishment, a malicious blow for the cruel acts he visited upon others during his blackest days. Or maybe it was the Dark Ones, furious over his defiance, plaguing him with one last sorrow to vent their bitterness on their destroyer.

Whatever the reason for his last living burden, there was no doubt in his mind that he died. That was how he came to be in the Underworld, after all. The questions that plagued him, however, were not about his arrival in this dreadful place. How did Emma get here? Had she died in some fateful battle with a dangerous foe? Had the Crocodile done his worst and killed her? 

No, no, no. She couldn't be dead and buried, not his Swan. Mortals could only arrive in this place upon their death, but she was the Savior, if anyone living could walk into the Underworld, it would be her. But if that were true, then she had risked everything for him, and for what? What kind of future did they have here, even if they completed the mandatory trials?

He tainted everything he touched, and his love burned everyone close to him. That was some he failed to put right, even in death.

Killian realized that he had fallen into yet another trap, indulging his self-pity, when Emma required his aid. No matter what, he would return her to the land of the living, to her family, to her son. She deserved a long and happy life, and to give her that, he had to bury his qualms, lest he betray some vestige of his doubts and stall her progress.

At some point during his musings, he had started pacing, which served as a hindrance to the task he claimed he would do. So he set his thoughts aside and sought out every tome that might contain information on the Unending Flame. It appeared he had a lot of reading in his future.

Meanwhile, Emma reached the front door, which had been badly damaged, as had the storm door behind it. She initially assumed that the sea serpent was responsible, but only the outermost door bore signs of tooth and scale. It held against the beast's multiple attacks, though the creature had reduced it to broken splinters that barely clung together on the last of its hinges. The storm door, on the other hand, had been rammed opened with immense force, probably with something akin to a battering ram.

She went outside and closed the doors as best she could. The serpent had cleared the way, yet the thief made no attempt to remove it before breaking down the storm door. From outside, it was clear that no battering rod was used to breach the lighthouse; no, someone had bashed the doors in with nothing more than a shoulder.

She ran her hands along the point of impact, marveling at how small it was. Whoever did this wasn't much bigger than she, perhaps a few inches taller. The most disturbing thing, though, was its raw physical nature, for she sensed no magic traces along the wooden surface. How did someone her size shatter a door that even a sea serpent couldn't bend?

It certainly shortened the list of suspects.

She ducked back inside and barred the door with the best plank of spare wood and reinforced it with whatever she could find, though it was a poor substitute. Then she climbed the stairs to the midline, where Killian was already waiting, surrounded by a small circle of books.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked.

"Apparently, the list of people who would want to steal the Unending Flame is quite lengthy," he replied. "It essentially includes everyone who ever lived."

"I can narrow it down," she said. "Whoever stole it was strong enough to break through both doors with their shoulder and no magic."

"A giant or titan perhaps."

"They don't come in my height," she replied. "Besides the door, they didn't leave a trace."

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

The sounds of clockwork mechanism became louder and louder, until neither could ignore its swaying tones.

"What the bloody hell is that?" Killian asked first.

She absentmindedly put her hand over one of her robe's pockets, her mind unconsciously following the sound to its source. She drew the shining orb out into view, and only then did she remember waking with it in her hand.

"Swan?" he prompted.

"I, uh... this was in my hand when we woke," she explained. "I know it wasn't there before I fell asleep."

"Aye, I woke with this," he said.

He indicated a shining sliver wrapped around the base of his hook where it met with the brace that held it in place. Light suddenly struck it, and it sparkled with a brilliant golden hue.

"I can't seem to remove it," he added.

She ran her finger over it, finding it surprisingly fine, for she had expected it to be a metallic wire. She attempted to remove it, but it wouldn't budge. It almost looked like it was part of the brace.

"Maybe it's a talisman," she suggested.

"From my experience, amulets and the like tend toward the gaudy," he replied. "This tiny thing hardly seems imbued with magic."

She held up the orb, and he found its iridescent light simultaneously curious and delightful. He extended his hand to graze the surface of it with his fingers, and the orb spoke with an inhuman voice, though there was something vaguely feminine about it.

 ** _Hippolyta._**

Then the realization hit them both with absolute clarity. Their next trial was to take the Unending Flame back from Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, and restore it to Stagrock Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prometheus was a Titan, or proto-deity, in Greek mythology. His name means "forethought." He stole fire from the gods and gave it to humanity, and for this he was gravely punished by Zeus.


	26. Ariadne, Dionysus, and the Minotaur

_A very, very long time ago..._ Heracles sought redemption and so undertook ten tasks said to be so difficult no man could ever hope to complete them. His ninth labor was to retrieve the Belt of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, who ruled the fiercest warriors in all the realms, so no act of force would ever wrench such a prized possession from her or her ranks.

But Heracles, being of determined stock and disposition, traveled to the land of the Amazons and formally requested an audience with Hippolyta. Upon their meeting, the Queen of the Amazons was impressed with the young hero's honesty and even more so with the kindness of his heart, for he had suffered many years for the sake of his absolution yet remained noble and unencumbered by the snares of bitterness. So she offered him her belt without conflict as a gift for the world-weary hero. Thus, Heracles so concluded his ninth labor with nary a drop of blood nor sweat.

To this day, the storybooks maintain this tale, for none knew that Hippolyta paid dearly for this simple act of compassion. Though the Queen did not know it, the goddess Hera watched Heracles struggle with gladness, and she frowned upon anyone who eased his burden, however slightly. Thus, she conjured up a wicked punishment for the Queen who dared to lessen one of his labors. She ordered Hermes to beguile Hippolyta into traveling to the Underworld without invitation or permission. Hermes then abandoned her, leaving her to incur the wrath of Hades and his judges, who swiftly condemned the trespasser. From that moment onward, Hippolyta was a living soul trapped in the Underworld, never to see her people nor rule over them evermore. 

That was how Hippolyta came to be in the Underworld with a bitter mistrust of Olympians and, above all, a score to settle. When whispers of a godly treasure hidden in the depths of this realm caught her ear, she listened and followed them to their source, but alas, the Unending Flame was too well guarded for her to acquire it. So she waited a very, very long time, and one day, both the snare that protected it and the Keeper who guarded it were gone. Hippolyta set upon her opportunity, leaving Stagrock Light dark for the first time since the day of its creation.

Unfortunately, neither Emma Swan nor Killian Jones had any way of knowing any of this, for though a rarity, some secrets remain kept, even in the Underworld.

* * *

"Swan, what the bloody hell is that?" Killian asked as he withdrew his hand. 

"I dunno," Emma replied. "I was holding it when I woke up."

She examined the orb closely, her fingers absently gliding over its flawless form as her eyes devoured its every contour and color. Though it shined brightly, the surface retained a perfect temperature, neither hot nor chilling to the touch, and the likewise its weight strained neither her muscles nor credulity. The lack of imperfection alone set it apart form anything she'd ever held in her hand, and in the end, it was the only thing that revealed the truth of its nature.

"It's pure magic," she concluded out loud. "Self-contained somehow... but it only seems to work when we're both touching it."

Killian hesitated to respond, for his immediate reaction was borne from hundreds of years of memories of the only the vileness sorcery. He mistrusted magic and those who wielded it, for such power consumed those who dared possess it. In fact, the only human he'd ever met who never let magic transfigure her heart was the impossible woman before him, the singular Emma Swan.

And her instincts told her that the orb was safe to use, that it wasn't part of the endless curse that entrapped them, yet it appeared to him as just another false hope. Who should he trust more, a pirate or the Savior? That was no riddle to him.

"Was it meant to aid us?" he asked, seeking her confirmation.

She nodded her head, yes.

He tentatively reached out, planning to put two fingers over it, but she grasped his wrist and turned his palm up, dropping the orb into it. Then she wrapped both her hands around his, and for a few fleeting seconds, there was naught but she and he waiting with anticipating breath. Thereafter, the unfettered power within burst out, and together they witnessed an onslaught of visual and auditory decadence. 

There were five resplendent horses, their noble forms silhouetted against a rising sun. Two stood side by side, their beauty contrasted by the wild frenzy in their eyes. A magnificent building appeared next emblazoned with the name The New Stables of Diomedes. 

The winds shifted, and a rush proceeded, a series of movements in rapid succession that began at the destination and withdrew, as if reversing all efforts to visit the locale. Through woods, then plains, straight to the shore where both rock and sand met the waves. The sound of the water became deafening. 

Emma opened her hands, breaking the connection and snapping them both back to the frigid lighthouse. Neither vocalized their concern over the fact that they saw no sign of Hippolyta nor the Unending Flame, for the orb presented not only the path but also a lingering message: to retrieve the stolen beacon, they would require something from those stables.

"I didn't recognize any of it," she confessed.

"Aye, you wouldn't," he replied. "I've seen that shore. Passed the Harbor of Northedge, no more than a day's journey."

She rose to her feet, her sedate and curious posture switching to alert and ready as she said, "If we start packing now, we could leave by dawn. I can - "

"Swan," he interrupted. "The sun went down only a few hours ago. There's no rush to collect what we'll need. Let's start a fire, warm ourselves, and eat before we decide anything."

* * *

Killian couldn't help the grimace when he saw the damage to the basement doors, for the Keeper knew there would be no repairing them and any replacements would take weeks to craft. He forced himself to press on and assess the rowboat, which had been mercifully preserved apart for a few chips along the stern, where the serpent's scales had cut hardest against the wood.

He was surprised at how difficult it was to shed the persona of the Keeper, for this life was naught but suffering rooted in deceit. Apparently, the solitary Keeper was as much a part of him now as the dastardly pirate.

The cold wrenched him from his thoughts as he shoved the door remnants aside. The weak blue light of dawn stretched its pale rays over the ragged dock. The sea serpent had broken much of the rail, but walking across it revealed no structural damage. There would be no obstacles loading the boat, so they could leave within the hour if they were particularly expedient about it.

He shouldered the rowboat and carried it to the edge of the dock where he moored it tightly as it swayed with the slow undulations of the tides. It was there under the nigh hypnotic motion equally familiar and foreign that he finally realized the extent of his exhaustion. He hadn't known a fatigue like it for an age, back during his time on the high seas of Neverland, where time only manifested in rust, rot, and storm. The steep price of agelessness was an unnatural weariness that never fully abated, so hose afflicted remained effete and spent regardless of their choices. It was the kind of curse that he once believed only the fiction of foolhardy storytellers, solely invented to dilute the wonder and allure of immortality, derived from jealousy rather than wisdom, for what storyteller truly chanced to ponder the gift of eternal life?

He had been a simpleton to presume such fantasies, and now his lone reflection was nothing more than the desperate hope that the children there were immune to that horrid malediction.

Killian turned back to the lighthouse, measuring his steps to quell his turbulent thoughts. He had never told Emma of that; in fact, there were countless things he'd yet to impart on her. Some were frivolities unworthy of her ear, and others were half-forgotten tales only old men would tell.

Yet there were many he should've told her long ago, and it was prudent to confide in her now, before time ran out. It always seemed to do that, and always far sooner than he desired. Perhaps that was the cost of his centuries as a villain, for what the darkness could not taint, it endeavored to destroy.

With that rueful thought, he cast his doubts away, for whoever he was now – the Keeper, Captain Hook, Lieutenant Jones – he had much to answer for and much ahead. He promised himself that he would save Emma Swan and return to her family, her son, whatever the price.

Emma descended into the basement laden with canvas packs that were heavy with provisions for the journey. Had she not been so burdened with awkward parcels precariously balanced in her arms, she would've witnessed the sorrow and guilt of Killian's soul. As it happened, however, the faintest echo of her footfall alerted him to her presence. He banished all sorrows from his visage and straightened up, putting on the airs of the pirate-turned-hero, for he longed to see that beaming smile that only she possessed, the one she reserved for the joyous beginnings of a joint adventure.

And he was not left wanting, for at the sight of him, she could no more help the upturning of her lips than the flutter of her heart. She let the packages fall to the floor before she leaned over them to plant a soft, sweet kiss on his lips.

His arms coiled around her to bring her near despite the obstacles, and his mouth devoured hers with a voracious hunger he hadn't realized he'd had. They indulged in the bliss of one another, drinking in each other as they grappled to come closer, stumbling over the bags at their feet. When the kiss ended, he remained hunched over so that she could press her forehead against his as they both regained their composure.

The bright rays of the morning sun warmed their skin as the invigorating sea air enveloped them in a salty wind. His body urged him to discard their quest and retreat into the warm sanctuary of the living room, where they could make love until the moon rose into the night sky, but he resisted the temptation. It was, Emma, however, who mustered the strength to speak.

"We'd better stop now," she said quietly. "Or we might never."

Killian, being only flesh and blood, could only contest his yearnings so much, asked, "Is that such a horrid thing?"

"No," she replied, flashing him another smile. "Actually, I'm looking forward to it."

 _Bloody hell_ , he thought. _This woman will be the death of me._

Before he could respond, she stepped back, hauled one of the packs to her shoulder, and walked away so that her blond locks flowed in the breeze like the tides. She, too, wanted nothing more than to start and never stop, to let passion consume their days and nights, to forget the responsibilities and tribulations of the world, but an urgency spurred her to complete the so-referred labors as if an overturned hourglass was nearing the end of its grain. There would be time enough later to embrace both her countless fantasies and his unfathomable desires after they escaped this place, lest they became mired in this curse evermore.

When she reached the boat, she realized that he was still inside the lighthouse.

"Are you coming?" she called.

"Aye, love," he replied as he lifted his pack and several lengths of rope.

They tied down their packs and the oars, so Emma made for the lighthouse, assuming they would secure the doors before they disembarked.

"There's no point," Killian said gently. "Those doors won't hold against a strong wind, let alone a storm."

"But everything you own is in there," she said.

"No, everything the Keeper owned is in there," he replied. "Happily, everything I hold dear is coming with me."

For some reason, his words made her mouth go dry, so she choked when she next tried to speak. Yet she pressed on until she could reply, "Me, too."

She climbed in and sat on the bow-side, and he joined her, taking up the rower's seat and undid the mooring. The steady slap of the oars against the water punctuated the bittersweet silence as they left the battered lighthouse, which seemed so vulnerable under the new day sun. She wondered if they'd ever return, because more and more, this place felt like a dream.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I capsized my vessel while transporting the Admiral of the Royal Fleet?" Killian asked abruptly.

"No, I'm pretty sure that's something I'd remember hearing about."

"Ah, then you're in for quite a tale, love."

* * *

The weather and sea favored them, yet the unforgiving nature of their journey refused to abate, particularly the relentless kiss of the sun, which was so harsh that Emma rigged up a pair of makeshift parasols before they even passed Cellar Island. Despite the shade, the oppressive heat made the rowing hard going, so they switched off every few hours. Even though they didn't stop to rest nor to eat, their progress was halting at best, forcing them to consume whatever morsels they could while sitting at the bow.

Killian did his best to distract them, regaling her with stories about his time serving in the Royal Navy. The bitterness of his brother's death had turned those memories so sour that he never spoke of them, apart from a few select moments he imparted to Milah. After her murder, he locked those memories away, lest they lightened the blackened heart he required for his revenge of skinning the Crocodile. Telling those tales not only made the time pass more swiftly, but to him, it was akin to a tonic or confession, somehow purging his demons and conscience alike. 

By midday, the sounds of the Northmost Harbor echoed across the water. Emma caught only the faintest glimpses of the bustling thoroughfare, for they agreed to give it a wide berth, despite its alluring promise of reprieve. The last thing they needed was unwanted attention from those most affected by the lighthouse falling dark, so they kept out of sight of the shore as they went by the port.

Emma had hoped that their destination would soon be upon them once they passed the harbor, but there were many hours yet before the shore became rocky and rugged. By the time they landed, there were precious few hours before dusk, so they scrambled to carry the boat inland where they could hide it. They scarcely had time to build a fire before darkness fell, which forced them to camp far closer to shore than they had planned.

Luck hadn't failed them entirely, though, for the sky was car and the winds calm, allowing them to settle out in the open. They coiled together by the receding tongues of flame with little more than a heavy blanket between them and the stars. Though the ground was uncomfortable, the company made it bearable.

"You love the sea, don't you?" Emma asked.

"Aye, it's in my blood, as they say," he replied.

"Can you picture yourself settling down on dry land?"

"I have done," he responded. "When I traded _The Jolly Roger_ to get back to you."

"I'll never forget that," she said, squeezing his hand. "Never."

"It was nothing," he admitted. "I had spent the year previous pining, trying to go back to who I was before I met you. A fool's errand. I could no more embrace the darkness within than the stars could blot out their light."

"They are beautiful," she whispered.

Something in her voice made him wonder what preyed on her mind, for there was no doubt in his that something troubled her in this moment.

"What are you thinking of?" he asked.

"Ariadne," she replied.

"The woman who defeated the Minotaur," he said. "An odd thing to ponder at such a time."

"She didn't kill the Minotaur."

"No, but she provided Theseus with a sword to kill the beast and a ball of thread, that he might escape the labyrinth," Killian said. "She wasn't among those to be sacrificed, otherwise I suspect she would've marched into that maze herself."

"You sound like you knew her personally," she commented.

"I know her type," he said, waggling his eyebrow for emphasis. 

"She fell in love with Theseus," Emma commented. "She thought if she helped him slay the Minotaur and escape the labyrinth, they'd run off into the sunset together and live happily ever after."

"But that was not how things transpired," he added. "Her suiter abandoned her, did he not?"

"Depends on the version, but no matter his reason, he left Ariadne," she replied. "She was alone on some island with a broken heart and no home to return to, probably the worst moment of her life, and Dionysus sweeps in and marries her. It always stuck out to me, that part of the story, because it was the only one where the hero isn't the guy who bravely kills the bad thing... at least, not in the end."

"Aye," he said. "But were it not for the Minotaur and her broken heart, Ariadne may have never had found love, happiness, and immortality besides."

"That was my father's... my _grand_ father's favorite tale," Emma corrected herself.

"Grandfather?"

"Leopold, my mother's father," she said. "He was Leopold Swan in this life, my adopted father, and my grandmother, Eva Swan, was my adopted mother."

"You speak as if they were real," he observed. "Rather than fanciful figments of this realm."

"They were real," she said.

He rose up on to one elbow, changing the angle between them, his mind flush with possibilities.

"Swan?"

"Milah and Liam were real."

"Aye, as ghosts and phantoms in this realm," he said quickly.

"Graham was real," she continued. "Pan and Greg were both real, Killian. That's why we remember their faces."

"So your grandparents... Graham, the others," he said. "They, too, came to this realm."

"Either they came or they were brought," she replied.

"But Liam insisted that his attempt to come to me trapped him here as a wisp of himself, a glimmer of spirit that I never could connect with, not without my memories."

"I don't know how or why," she admitted. "But their faces are true, and they remain true because it was really them, curse or no. Nearly everyone else in this life was false, but I met my grandparents, or some version of them, and I got to say goodbye to Graham..."

"Aye," Killian commented quietly.

He couldn't argue with her assertion of the facts, for the Stormbringer bore Pan's countenance whenever he dreamt or thought of the vile tyrant. The Dockmaster, the Lawmaster, and countless others had all become faceless entities, carelessly ambiguous to his waking thoughts and nightmares alike. The only reason such clarity could persist was the essence of a true soul, that part of a person that could never be tainted or torn asunder by even the darkest of curses. 

"It's just... so easy to feel like I've been abandoned," she continued tentatively. "Even though I know I'm not alone."

A wicked grin flashed across his lips as he said, "Are you equating me with Dionysus?"

"I'm trying to apologize," she said. 

"We've both done enough of that, love."

"It doesn't feel like I've done enough," she said, lowering her voice. "Just the opposite."

"Swan, I - "

"I had everything I ever wanted," Emma cut him off. "I grew up with siblings and great parents and friends, a community... I had the childhood I always wanted, while you had nothing, all because - "

He interrupted her, "Because part of the curse was to take everything away from you, Swan, to strip you of everything you'd ever longed for."

"But that's not what happened for you," she pointed out.

"Isn't it?" he asked. "My time in this realm hasn't been pleasant, but there was one thing I had here that I longed for all my life... freedom."

"Freedom?" she repeated.

"I spent most of my life trapped," he explained. "My brother and I were trapped by our father's debt. Then I was trapped by my commission and even trapped as a pirate. It never mattered what decision I made, even when I didn't choose anything at all, I always wound up confined with responsibilities... I had never truly been alone, fully independent. Not like I was here."

"You want to be alone?" she asked.

"No, no," he responded as he took hold of her hand. "I didn't even know... it never seemed something to desire. Yet there were many years here where my solitude was a gift I never appreciated."

She cupped his cheek as her eyes bored into his, searching for any sign of omission or other untruth, but all she found was a melancholy that deepened with his realization. Not all personal truths were worthy of speech, and she had no doubt that whatever he chose not to impart belonged to that realm of self-discovery.

"I had everything I had ever wanted," she said. "And some of it was real, but... it wasn't enough to fill the hole in my heart. It wasn't enough because I didn't have _you_."

"Emma, you couldn't remember me."

"I didn't have to," she replied breathlessly. "When you're not there, I can feel it, even if I can't remember who I'm missing."

There were no words to express his response, which was something between reciprocation and awe, so he closed the gap between them and pressed his lips against hers. The sweet, chaste kiss quickly escalated with teeth and tongue, and he shifted his body covered hers. Her hands were suddenly everywhere: in his hair, gliding over his back, caressing any skin that she could reach.

He became lost in her eyes, her scent, her warmth as she enveloped him in her arms. She pressed her advantage and flipped them, so he was on his back with her sprawled out on top of him. She rose to her knees and dragged her core against his body, and they soon lost themselves to the urgent passions that had been bubbling up since they settled in for the night. 

The heat between them made them cast off the quilt, and the scanty garments that separated them soon followed. His left arm fit perfectly into the small of her back as his hand explored the voluptuous curve of her breasts. She anchored herself to the ground as his bowed up against her, their friction like fire and ice colliding as they moved together.

This time there was no distraction of memories punctuation the flood of moments. This time, there was nothing but Emma and Killian, bare under a blanket of stars by the dying embers of the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ariadne was the daughter of Minos, King of Crete, who sacrificed men and women every seven years by sending them into the Labyrinth. Within lived the Minotaur, a half-man, half-bull which devoured anyone sent into the maze. One year Theseus, son of King Aegeus, drew the lot of those sorry souls condemned to death by the Minotaur, but when Ariadne saw him she fell in love. So she gave Theseus all he needed: a sword to kill the Minotaur and a ball of thread to aid in his escape from the Labyrinth.
> 
> Thereafter, Ariadne fled with Theseus, intending to elope. Instead of marrying her, Theseus abandoned her on the island Naxos, where Dionysos, the deity of wine and ecstasy, discovered her and made her his bride. When she died, she ascended to Mount Olympus as an immortal.


	27. For the Footfall of Artemis

Killian woke to a burning in his eye. Rushed to ease the startling discomfort, he inelegantly dragged his hand across his face, where he gathered several strands of golden hair that had flown into his brow at the will of the rolling dawn breeze. The stinging subsided in ebbs and eddies, and he relaxed in equal measures, slipping back into the sweet surrender of sleep with only the faintest flourishes of wakefulness holding him on the edge of consciousness, where he delighted in the blissful limbo between the fantasy of his dreams and the comfort of blanketed warmth.

The wind lashed out abruptly, cutting through the protection of the quilt and jarring him awake with its icy tendrils. He instinctively tensed to conserve heat, and in so doing, he brought Emma tight to his chest. She barely stirred at the onslaught of frozen air, though she mumbled a string of nonsense as she buried her head in his chest.

"Morning, love," he whispered in her ear.

She had yet to awaken fully, for her wont was to rise late, even more so on days like this, when she felt she could lounge in bed till sundown. She curled against the firm body wrapped around hers, and a playful smile came to her lips as she recalled events from the night previous, which flooded her with such euphoric energy that her eyes snapped open. Had she still been in some stupor of sleep, the blaze of the sun overhead would've shaken her from it.

"Morning," she grumbled in reply.

"Spot of breakfast?"

"Do I have to move?"

"Aye, and it's best if we do so now," he said gently. "We're out in the open. Only a matter of time before someone happens upon us."

They dressed haphazardly and half-covered with the quilt before consuming a cold and paltry breakfast. They likewise packed hastily and perhaps somewhat unwisely, for they were determined to clear any sign of their camp thoroughly, lest they be tracked by some manner of enemy or random miscreant with the will to do them harm. Killian obscured any remaining vestiges as Emma double-checked the concealment of the rowboat. Unfortunately, their speed did precious little to counter their late-morning lingering, for they had slept hours beyond the dawn. By the time Killian discovered their bearings and Emma, the trail head, midday was upon them.

It was fortunate Killian knew something of the landscape, for there were many miles between the shore and the plains and more yet to the edge of the forest. They spent most of the day under the blaring heat of the sun with scarcely a shadow for comfort. Neither desired any additional delay, but they stopped outside the tree line to consume a very late and equally light lunch, which was hindered by the effects of their hurried morning packing.

Naturally, Emma felt that they deserved the reprieve of the late afternoon clouds, which afforded them a spot of shade as their meal came to a close, but Killian reacted as if a looming danger had announced itself. Without an iota of explanation, he scrambled to their packs and dug out an assortment of oddities, upsetting their already messy packs.

"Emma, we need to act quickly," he said, as if only noticing now that she had not joined him in his frenzy. "It may be upon us in minutes."

She had been too busy enjoying the dimming light to realize what such a thing forecasted, for it was far too early for dusk. The overcast was the herald of a storm front.

She immediately came to Killian's aid, and together they sorted the packs and donned their raingear with impressive speed. They even had a few minutes walking before the wind picked up and the sky opened, pelting them with heavy droplets of rain. 

It didn't take long for the precipitation to rise into a full-fledged rainstorm, which was mercifully free of thunder and lightning. The discomfort of their trek increased tenfold, however, for the din of the tempest drowned out everything, robbing them of one another's company. Perhaps that was why the latter part of the day seemed endless in length. 

The storm waned as dusk fell, and Emma wondered if they would reach their destination soon or if they'd camp to avoid hiking in the dark. Neither option was particularly tempting. Before she could vocalize her thoughts, however, a sign appeared in the distance, and both increased their pace as their endurance rebounded on the faintest glimmer of hope. She could make out heavy lettering, though the words remained foggy and elusive, yet she was certain that it announced their arrival at the stables. She was so sure of this fact that she did not notice the sign's message was naught but nonsense; indeed, she failed to realize the lettering was enchanted until she was only a few feet away.

Once alerted, she halted immediately, throwing her arm out across Killian's chest to arrest his momentum. He silently obeyed but could not help the confused scowl that blossomed on his face, for he saw no reason for caution. 

"Something's wrong," she said in a hush.

That was all she had time to say before the world went black for both of them.

* * *

Her next memory was of intense pain followed by a permeating feeling of illness that glued her eyes shut, for she was certain that whatever she saw would only make matters worse. She slowly became aware of a continuous swaying motion along with a constant _clip, clop, clip, clop_ that seemed distant. As her aches receded, her strength grew, and she shifted her weight to test her body, to see if she was ready to rise.

Emma's hands protested, and with a pang of horror, she recognized that she was bound. She held back the panic and the fear erupting within, yet even so, her breath soon turned labored as her heart drummed up a tantrum of blood so fierce it threatened to burst from every pore.

"Brave," a cold, female voice spoke. "But pointless. Don't bother being coy, dear. I know you're awake."

Emma knew that voice, but it couldn't be. She was dead.

 _Everyone here is dead,_ she reminded herself.

She sat up and forced her eyes open, unwilling to lay helpless in the presence of an enemy. She vaguely registered that she was inside a carriage, but her focus fell entirely on the woman she'd hoped never to see again.

"Cora," she said stiffly.

"So informal, Second Keeper," Cora replied. "It's the Mayor to you. Do sit."

To her dismay, magic lifted her from the floor of the transport and slammed into the seat opposite Cora. Hoping that the villain would be too distracted by her gloating to notice, Emma began to channel her magic, focusing it so she could free herself of the rope.

"Where's Killian?" she asked.

" _Killian_?" Cora repeated in disbelief. "Do you mean to tell me that you actually fell in love with some loathsome lighthouse Keeper! Foolish girl!"

"Where _is_ he?"

"Tell you what," she replied. "I'll tell you where he is if you answer one question for me."

Emma could muster no more than a begrudging silence as agreement. Her magic wouldn't pool at her command, nor did it shake the bindings free of her wrists. Something was blocking her powers.

"How did you die?"

Emma jolted at the unexpected question and balked, "What?" 

"It's hardly a complicated question. I died after your mother transferred a deadly poison from the Dark One to my heart with a cursed candle and then tricked my own daughter into returning it to my chest," Cora explained. "And you?"

"The Dark One," she replied.

"The Dark One?" Cora repeated, a thrill of laughter escaping her lips thereafter. "It certainly serves your mother right, doesn't it? She murdered me to save him, and then he turns around and kills you."

Cora smiled smugly at the thought as she relaxed into her seat, her posture still rigid and regal. They rode silently for a few minutes, each expecting the other to speak.

"Killian," Emma said. "You said you'd tell me - "

Cora interrupted, "Only after you answer my question."

"I just did!"

"You told me _who_ , not how."

Emma bit her lip to stall, but Cora clearly wasn't going to tell her what she'd done to Killian until she got what she wanted. What option did Emma have? She needed to know what happened to him.

"Sword to the heart," she said tersely.

"We both know that your heart is protected."

"So did he," Emma replied. "Which is why he enchanted it."

"What is it about your death that you're so desperate to keep secret?" Cora asked. "I doubt the Savior had anything less than a blaze of glory."

Cora snapped her fingers, and every muscle in Emma's body clenched into unmoving tension. It wasn't painful, but neither could she relax. In fact, all she could move was her eyes and eye lids.

She blinked, and Cora was suddenly within an arm's reach with a single index finger extended dramatically, a faint purple glow emanating from the tip. It pressed hard into the center of her forehead, and she went cross-eyed trying to follow it. She knew the spell Cora was conjuring, for it was similar to the magic of Dreamcatchers, which draw out memories, though this spell sussed out secrets instead.

If she could have, Emma would've smiled, for while the spell was powerful, it sought all secrets in equal measure, then honed in those most deeply guarded by the heart. _Any_ secret could lead astray, so she latched onto the most recent one, specifically the location of the rowboat left ashore, and guarded it with everything she had.

The magic burned against her skin, and her secrets flashed before her mind's eye in swift succession: the woman she lied to protect from her abusive husband; Graham, her previous feelings for him still unconfessed; the many things she'd never had a chance to say to Henry. The more she saw, the quicker they went, becoming more and more brief as they did so. She saw flickers of conversation with Regina, her father, her father... she even had a view of Rumpelstiltskin, her parents, Henry, Regina, and Robin standing in a dark corridor before the image of the hidden rowboat overwhelmed it.

Then it all stopped, and Cora withdrew her hand. It took Emma a moment to recognize that she could move again.

"Clever girl," Cora remarked, though by her tone made it plain that it was the exact opposite of what she thought.

Then she huffed a mirthless laugh before she pursed her lips as she shook her head, no.

"Did you really expect me to believe that _Rumple_ killed you?" she asked, her voice derisive. "Don't you want to know what happened to the Keeper? The only way you'll find out is if you tell me how you died."

"Why do you care?" Emma countered. "Dead is dead."

"Except when it isn't," Cora said, her perception sharp as a barb. "Because you are more foolish than my daughter and even your own mother, walking into the Underworld for a pirate!"

"Why did you do to him?" Emma demanded, unable to hide the venom in her voice.

The smile on Cora's wicked face could make serpents slither away in revulsion. With a wave of her hand, she rendered Emma mute. 

"I suppose now that I have the only living soul in the Underworld, there's no harm in telling you about the pirate's fate," Cora said. "It was nothing personal, you understand. I never had anything against Hook. In fact, he proved an adequate ally at one point, but he had served his purpose long ago. Now, well, he was a complication, an obstacle, for my plans. He would never stop trying to save you, to defend you, and I couldn't have that. I cut off his head and banished his body rom this realm."

Emma struggled fruitlessly against her restraints, desperate to escape and rescue Killian, but if anything, the ropes tightened against her skin. She wanted to cry out, to scream, because if he was dead, if he wasn't in this realm, then she had failed. All was lost.

Cora watched her railing misery with naught but indifference, save for the shine of malice in her eyes.

"Didn't I tell you, dear? Love is weakness."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Greek mythology, Artemis is the goddess of the hunt, wild animals, and the wilderness.


	28. With the Hubris of Bellerophon

The New Stables of Diomedes, upon their founding, had nothing to do with their namesake nor the man who owned their predecessor, though that mistake was common enough, even among those who possessed comprehensive knowledge of the Northmost Lands. The building itself was intricate and artful in its design, yet eons ago when this world formed, the stables appeared not along the shore nor nestled in the open plains but instead obscured and hidden deep in the woods, where the labor of its making went unnoticed and its splendor unlauded. A scant few who lived in neighboring settlements knew that the stables existed, but having little reason to impart its virtue spoke equally little about it. In many respects, it was a local secret, albeit one that no one intended to create nor maintain.

At least, not in the beginning.

Many, many years later, a woman happened upon the stables, drawn in by their tragedy as much as their majesty. Being of a cunning and ruthless nature, she decided that the stables would be her first conquest in this realm, and she would do anything to keep them for herself. She presented herself to the Lord of the Stables as a lonely lady seeking refuge from the cruel world, and he was moved by her heartfelt plea and invited by her to stay as his guest for as long as she so desired. From that day on, the woman painted herself a serene and pensive soul with a fondness for horses, and in less than a fortnight, the Lord of the Stables fell in love with her and begged her to be his wife. They were married by the next fortnight, and before the next, the Lord of the Stables was dead, leaving the newly titled Lady of the Stables as its sole caretaker.

And so began the quiet reign of the Lady of the Stables, who by subtle and devious means seized the leadership of the largest local town, and in so doing, earned the title by which she went to this very day: the Mayor.

True, the position seemed paltry in the shadow of those she had held in her life previous, where she was born the Miller's Daughter and rose through a frenzy of fire and blood into the mantle of the Queen of Hearts. But unlike the power she acquired while alive, that which she appropriated in the Underworld retained potency for years beyond her reckoning, allowing her to consolidate one position over another, thereby building an empire without drawing the wary eyes of the Underworld judges, lest they wrest the lands from her sphere of influence to curb her domain. Thus, the Mayor grew her reach and reputation without contest, and those few who possessed any knowledge of her whispered that she was a powerful sorcerer who bewitched all she met.

Regardless of her methods, the Mayor sought one prize above all others: a ticket out of the Underworld. Through millennia of misadventures, misery, and the miserly hands of fate, she had such a thing in her grasp in the form of Emma Swan.

The Mayor - or Cora, as she preferred - could not have hoped for a better turn of fortune, for not only had she finally acquired a living soul to exchange for her own but that soul was none other than the beloved daughter of Snow White. What better revenge could she devise than to resurrect herself at the expense of the so-called hero who murdered her? Any doubts she had about her pursuits in this realm were washed away, for her countless years of suffering would end in a blaze of euphoria induced by the blood of one of her oldest enemies.

The pitiful girl fumed over the revelation of her pirate lover's demise, fighting against her binding and the spell that stole her voice. At first, it amused her but quickly turned tedious, so Cora knocked her out with a few drops of a powerful sleeping draught, which made her company far more enjoyable.

They rode to the rocky shore, where Cora ordered the Coachman to search for and retrieve the hidden rowboat that Emma's mind had so helpfully offered in her desperate attempt to guard her memories from intrusion. The foolish girl thought she was protecting herself, but in reality, she had provided the necessary transport for the last leg of the journey. By the time the Coachman returned with the craft and wrestled it into the water, she had to dose her unwilling passenger again, this time with enough to keep her out until sundown.

Cora smiled. They'd reach the lighthouse by dusk, and she would rise into the land of the living before midnight.

* * *

The Stablehand went about her day's business, though with the main carriage drawn she had little to do, for the Mayor demanded all four steeds and made no mention of her return time. The Stablehand had learned long ago that the best days were those blessed with the Mayor's absence, and she planned to take full advantage of her boon of freedom, even if only for a few hours.

She mucked all the stalls and laundered the blankets before reviewing and repairing all the tack. She checked on the animals in her charge, watering them as needed, and as everything was in order, she indulged into a sumptuous lunch that lasted over an hour. She lingered afterward but not to bask in a lazy afternoon. No, she hesitated so as to avoid the last and most worrying of her daily tasks, knowing full and well that it could not be ignored.

She plated a meager meal of tomato and cheese with a lettuce and a spot of the worst cut of beef. She carried it out to the smallest stall in the stables, which she had happily evaded all morning. She stepped inside and placed the food next to the waterskin she had left the night previous.

The Stablehand glowered at the man shackled to the far wall, for he had obviously been trying the metal that dared to hold him. Anticipating an escape, she had separated him from his boots and his hook, which was why she was looking at a particularly ornery and disheveled version of Killian Jones, the Keeper of Stagrock Light.

"You have ten minutes and one fork," the Stablehand barked.

She loosened his shackles, relieved him of his gag, and thrust a fork in his hand. She backed off until she was by the stall door, where she crossed her arms and waited, silently reaffirming that she need only tolerate his presence for ten minutes.

"Good morning to you as well, Tamara,"" he said as he shifted toward his food.

"It's afternoon," she retorted. "And it's Stablehand to you."

"Why so formal?" he asked. "It's hardly as if you respect the law."

"The Mayor ordered me to hold you here," she stated baldly. "The Mayor is the law."

"Is she indeed?" he asked. "And how do you find your employment with her?"

"You shouldn't waste what little time you have talking," she said. "Ten minutes and I leave no matter how much you've eaten."

He said, "I once worked with Cora - "

"The Mayor!" the Stablehand interjected.

"It wasn't a pleasant experience," Killian continued. "She attempted to kill me several times, then violated our accord and betrayed me. Hardly an employer to recommend."

"Stop talking, _pirate_ ," she hissed, gritting her teeth.

He flashed her a devilish grin, and she cursed herself for her misstep. She wasn't supposed to acknowledge any part of her past life, including her acquaintance with Captain Hook.

"Well, hello," he said smugly.

"Don't get cocky," she replied. "It changes nothing."

He chewed his foods deliberately, giving himself the time to size up his opponent. Her stance was wide and strong, and her hands shows signs of recent callousing. Her expression was remarkably stoic, betraying only the faintest hints of distain and annoyance. Beyond that, there was scarcely anything about her to read, save for her fingers, which clutched tightly at her forearms. She was pent up, practically boiling with rage.

"May I inquire after your paramour?" he asked.

She flinched and the hastily schooled her features, leaving naught but a grimace on her face. 

"I take it that he hasn't returned," he pressed.

Her brow knit in confusion as she turned her head to look at him sideways.

"What do you mean, return?" she asked.

"He was at Stagrock not long ago," he replied. "I assumed he would return after his failed assault."

"You're lying."

"I'll admit, I was hoping he'd be thrown into the ocean," he said. "He did bring The Stormbringer to my doorstep."

"The Stormbringer?" she scoffed. "He's a myth."

"Actually, he was your old boss," he sneered. "Peter Pan."

"When last I checked, you were the one who served him," she said. "And Greg would never for that... _thing_ ever again. Pan is the reason we're dead."

"Perhaps he didn't know," Killian pointed out. "In this world, he was the Second Deputy of a small town in the Midlands before he came to Northedge and became the Chamberlain of the Stormbringer."

"Greg?" she questioned softly. "He was in the Midlands?"

"Aye," he replied. "He worked with Emma for a time."

In one swift motion, she snatched his fork away and shoved him against the far back wall.

"Easy there, love," he said. "By my count, I still have three more minutes - "

She interrupted, "Shut up! You want a chance? Fine. Tell me _everything_ you know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellerophon was a hero in Greek mythology, famed for slaying the Chimera, a fearsome beast. His fame made him prideful, so prideful that he decided he deserved to be a deity in his own right. Thus, he climbed upon his great, winged steed Pegasus and began to ascend to Mount Olympus. Zeus, furious with the man's presumption, ordered a bug to sting Pegasus, forcing the steed to unseat Bellerophon mid-flight. The fall crippled and blinded Bellerophon, and he spent the rest of his days on the Plain of Aleion (meaning, 'wandering').


	29. The Thread of Moirai

The Stablehand paced outside the stall door, her mind churning and her heart reeling. She had lived as a secondhand helper in the town for what felt like forever, working as an assistant to the Blacksmith when horses need shoeing or as a Secondary Groom when need arose. She subsisted in the best of circumstances, relying on handouts from the nearest church to fill her belly or for a safe place to sleep. At one point many years ago, when the harvest turned particularly poor and even those on high-hilled manors felt the ire of the soil, she settled in a large village, for it had comestibles and shelter that extended to a world-weary stranger.

The people of the village, which was more rightly a town by its size and structure, were reluctant to accept her. Back then, she was one of _those_ people who drifted from place to place for work, her title and thus her allegiances changing like the wind. Had it not been for the Pastor, a woman of rigid moral standards who refused to bend the rules to fit the mood of the village, the Stablehand would've been cast into the woods. The Pastor insisted that compassion and aid to the needy were tenants of her faith, so neither she nor her village could turn the Stablehand away. She had done no wrong, and therefore no wrong was due to her.

Unfortunately, no one else shared this view. Poverty like hers was a rarity, and those afflicted with it were blamed and ridiculed, as if they had chosen its punishing course for their own. All things being equal, blood ties ensured that every person within ten villages had some family that might take them in, but the Stablehand had been born an orphan, both her parents dead before she had a chance to draw breath. The orphanage that raised her found no family to take her in, and once she was old enough to work, she left, taking jobs where she could, hoping that fate would conspire to bring her to a proper partner, someone she could love and wed.

But that never happened. She remained alone in this world, until one day she saw a woman that reminded her that she had a name, though it had been so long since she'd heard it that she'd nearly forgotten. Her name was Tamara.

And that began the long, twisted road to where she stood now. For so long, she had assumed whatever powers that were had cast her into this horrid realm as punishment for her crimes, forcing her to live with the one thing she hated above all others: magic. Her pact with the Mayor - no, Cora - was just another part of her penance, but she had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that some reprieve was due to her after all she had suffered, that she would have the one thing she yearned for the many years of drudgery she had somehow survived alone.

 _Greg is here, in Northedge_ , she reminded herself.

The Mayor - no, Cora - had insisted that the man she sought remained stranded in the Midlands, where he was buried deep in obligation and a fog of false life, and she knew that spell only too well, as it had eaten years of her life and even now embedded doubt in her. Oh, Cora could retrieve him at considerable expense and in due time, but she required years of service to afford such a feat.

Tamara had served the witch four times what was due, but she kept conjuring reasons to put off collecting Greg from the Midlands. She had been assured that handling the pirate's informal incarceration would be her last payment, her last labors, and then Cora would free her of her duties and reward her for her steadfast fidelity. All she had to do was keep the pirate alive and in chains until Cora returned, whether it was a day from now or three months hence. 

_You can't trust her._

The niggling thought snuck up on her and struck every time she decided to stay her current course. Cora not only used magic, but she had a history of breaking her word, though Tamara was the only one who had survived her companionship long enough to know she had done it in this realm as much as the last. She had watched as Cora wed one wealthy man after the next, only for him to wither and die months after their marriage. One time she even poisoned her husband the day after their nuptials, and somehow the blame fell on the husband's son and heir, who became stripped of his titles and lands and sent to jail, that he might evermore be forgotten for his sins. No one ever questioned it, and no one seemed to remember the dozen or so husbands that wed the Mayor before their untimely demise.

_She can't be trusted._

Captain Hook was a wretched pirate whose villainy had inspired fairy stories for generations, yet he shared one very important thing with Tamara: a hatred of magic. His centuries of enmity with the Dark One had only sharpened his abhorrence, which made him a far more natural ally than the likes of Cora, but it hardly equated to him being trustworthy.

_Bang, bang, BANG!_

She rolled her eyes. He must've gotten a leg free of the shackles. She threw the stall door open and found him battling the restraints, the snarl on his face and the malice in his eye countering any comedy she might've found in his helplessness, which was underscored by the oddly pathetic affect his bare feet had on his visage.

"Stop moving," she ordered. 

He glowered at her as best he could, given the gag blocked much of his face, but his body stilled all the same. 

"Let's say I believe you that Greg is near," she said. "And that I don't trust the May - I mean, Cora. Last I checked, you and me have more than a little unfinished business. A little bad blood over how things ended in Storybrooke. Wouldn't you agree?"

His expression changed, and she lifted her hand in warning. She shackled the leg that he'd pried free and pulled the restraints over his arms tight before she loosened one side of the gag just enough for it to slip down his chin. He spat it out as she put distance between them, not trusting the chains to protect her from his wrath.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice somewhat raw thanks to the gag. "But I'm willing to let bygones be bygones, owing to the circumstances."

"Those being?"

"Cora has Emma," he replied. "I'm doubting that Cora's plans will leave her in good health."

"That's your plan? You get your love, I get mine?" Tamara asked incredulously.

Killian adjusted himself, waiting to reply until he was sitting upright and could look her in the eye. He normally had no issue escaping chains or ropes, as many people had little experience restraining someone with one hand, but Tamara had proven herself more than up to the task.

"No," he replied. "It's entirely possible that Greg was slain with the Stormbringer."

"You expect me to help you after you tell me that?"

"Aye," he replied. "Because Cora, talented though she may be, cannot raise the dead, so what do you think she will do to ensure your silence on her past crimes?"

"She'll kill me," Tamara replied. "But all that tells me is that I might have to run. Not that I should take you with me."

"The people who disposed of the Stormbringer were all heroes," he said quickly, as if he expected her to abandon him this very second. "I doubt they would've condemned him to death without trial, especially because the law might not punish him so harshly."

"That's it? You expect me to ditch Cora because, chances are, Greg is rotting in a work camp?" she asked. "If you're lying to me, you're robbing me of my one chance to get him back."

"If I was lying to you, I would've told you a happier tale," he retorted. "About how he's some jolly Dockhand whistling sea chanties. Wouldn't I?"

Tamara nodded her head, yes, but her fury prevented her from anything more than perfunctory agreement.

"Do you know what Cora plans to do with Emma?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"No," she said. "But whatever it is, it must be big, because she left the stables. She hasn't done that in decades. People come to her. Always."

Killian fought the urge to lash out at Tamara, for he could see her pain and sorrow just under the skin, pulling her in every direction possible. He knew that particular battle all too well, which meant he could exploit it, turn it against her to his advantage.

Except, that wasn't the man he was supposed to be anymore. He wasn't the dreaded pirate Captain Hook, and if he transmuted back to that old version of himself in his darkest hour, he'd never be properly rid of it.

"I can prove it," he said. "You need look no further than the Northmost Harbor. One of the heroes attending the Strombringer was sure to stay behind, or if not, then the Lawmaster will certainly know."

"All I would have to do is leave you here unattended, hike a day through the woods, travel at least another by the roads, and then hope I can find someone to talk to," she said. "Then two more days for a return journey. All the while, I'll have no way to know if Cora had returned."

"This is a stable," Killian pointed out. "Surely a steed could cut the journey's length to a day."

"The steeds here could cut the journey to a quarter of that," she said. "But she took all four of them to draw the carriage."

"You've only four horses?" he asked. "What of the noises I've heard day and night?"

Tamara pursed her lips. Every steed here had some kind of magic, and the four that Cora took were no exception. They were quick as lightning and their great size intimidated all who dared look upon them. It was said that, in their past lives, the four had belonged to man up until they devoured his flesh. While Tamara liked horses, she always kept a safe distance from the four prized beasts in this stable, and as for the fifth, well, it was a freak of nature like no other, though it at least seemed more horse than monster.

"Time is a factor," Killian persisted.

"I think you'll find that the horse isn't exactly friendly," she said. 

"Have you never tried to ride him?"

"He was brought here for studding," she said. Then she added, "He was brought against his will, with chains and whips. All the noise you've been hearing... he's been here a month and hasn't had a drop of water nor eaten an oat."

"How is he yet living?" Killian asked.

"Tell me, pirate," she said, changing the topic. "What do you think will happen to me if Greg is dead? Cora will want revenge, and I doubt your girlfriend will protect me."

"She would. She's a hero."

"I kidnapped her son," Tamara countered. "Even heroes have their limits."

"Aye, perhaps," he said. "There are others more powerful than Cora in this land."

"Like who?"

Without thinking, Killian blurted out the first name that came to mind, "Hippolyta."

"The Queen of the Amazons?" Tamara asked. "How can you know that?"

"She's the reason Emma and I came this far," he replied. "She took the Unending Flame from the lighthouse. We came to the mainland to look for her and take it back. She would have no place for me, but you are a woman and a warrior."

"But I am not an Amazon," Tamara said. 

"Then the Lawmaster of the Northmost Harbor," he suggested. "She can protect you. Or find you a castle or fort of particular safety."

She made up her mind. She couldn't trust anyone in this life, but a one-handed pirate was a better option than the vengeful witch. She drew her machete and made a quick show of it to Killian, and though it was clear he remained unafraid of her, the tension in his face increased.

"If you make any move to harm me, escape, or betray me - "

"I won't," he interrupted. "You have my word."

She quickly retrieved his hook, socks, and boots, which she had tied outside the stall door, and dropped them at his feet. She untied the restraints and let them fall loosely to the floor, leaving him upright and tangled as she waited outside the stall. When he appeared, rumpled and gleefully donning his hook, she didn't hesitate to go straight to the only other occupied stall.

Killian followed her warily, for though she seemed amenable to their accord, he had no reason to suspect she would remain so agreeable, particularly if Greg had died with the Stormbringer. At the very least, he wasn't gaged and shoeless any longer.

"The steed you requested," she said, waving her hand.

The stall door was twice as large as his had been, but then again, his had been designed for a normal horse of a normal size. This stall, like the ones near it, was crafted for a beast so enormous it dwarfed, of all things, horses. After having lived with nothing more than the sound of the creature's outbursts, he hadn't guessed its size, and now that he had an idea of it, he wasn't certain he wanted to face it.

 _It's the only way to rescue Emma_ , he thought to himself. 

That steeled his blood, and he nodded curtly to Tamara, who unbolted all three of the locks and threw the door open, taking care to duck out of any line of sight, leaving him alone in front of whatever monster awaited. He fought the desire to cower, though admittedly for his pride alone. There was no reason to suspect that it wouldn't trample over him on its value for freedom.

Time deceitfully passed in slow ebbs, for it felt like he stood vulnerable for eons. Yet nothing stirred, so he stepped close enough to see rightfully inside the enclosure while Tamara moved even farther from him.

What he saw took his breath away, for it was no beast at all but a pale and terrible stallion whose hue was somehow both a blinding white and a shining gold. The most splendid thing, however, was its glorious wings with a breadth no one could measure, filled with feathers so fine his eyes could barely discern them.

"Pegasus," he whispered.

Dread churned up in the back of his throat as he remembered the sail that once graced _The Jewel of the Realm_ , the one which had the power to transcend realms and brought them to Neverland. Did not his own brother tell him that it had been woven from the last feathers of the legendary horse that could fly. What would the creature think if he knew how his remains were put to use? Surely the steed would have a low opinion of the man who not only abused those remnants only to burn them unceremoniously moments later.

Then Pegasus was upon him, his great nose nudging his shoulder and his eyes filled with curiosity. Though his size made him intimidating, he appeared to be more of a gentle giant than otherworldly beast.

"I bet you're hungry, Old Boy," he whispered, patting him on his nose. 

Tamara was surprised that he hadn't been trampled immediately, and she was even more astonished when Killian talked of lore about Pegasus, specifically stories that spoke to the creature's eating habits. The stallion was never meant for a stable, and while he would eat from the hands of the deities atop Mount Olympus, he would never take anything served from the unworthy. In this realm, he only ever grazed the open grass and natural foods.

So they loosed him in the pasture that went straight to the tree line, and he ate his fill before watering himself at the river, returning with a healthy glow about him, a shimmer that could not be explained by the high afternoon sun.

Tamara attempted to saddle him, for he was roughly the size of the other steeds and she presumed one of their saddles would fit. Unfortunately, between his wings and wild nature, she only proved no saddle nor bridle could stay on Pegasus more than a few seconds.

"I suppose we'll be riding without a saddle," Killian said.

"You really think I'm getting on that thing without a bridle?" she asked.

"Have you ever flown a horse before?" he asked.

"Of course not!"

"Then perhaps he is the better judge of direction and speed," he suggested.

"So, what, we tell him where to go and hope for the best?" she asked.

"Aye, I suspect he understands us," he replied. "He did fly to Mount Olympus at the behest of his rider."

Pegasus allowed Killian to mount without difficulty, though Tamara took a bit more effort. Apparently she wasn't the only one unhappy with this arrangement.

"Easy, Old Boy," he said quietly to Pegasus. "She's only looking for an escape, just the same as you and me."

His words calmed the horse enough to secure Tamara behind him. She gripped tightly to Killian's chest, and he became acutely aware her arms were wrapped around his torso. Knowing she couldn't see him, he glowered at her closeness. It should be Emma behind him, not some old enemy-turned-friend who he begrudgingly accepted.

"We're off to the Northmost Harbor," he said.

The hair on Pegasus's back shifted, and Killian did his best to mirror the movements. His knees bent so his legs tailed along the side of Pegasus, and he leaned forward until his belly nearly touched the steed's back. The position was awkward for anyone, let alone an experienced rider. Tamara's presence didn't help matters. Still, no matter how uncomfortable, it kept their legs clear of the wing joint, and the hair acted as firmly as a fitted leather saddle.

He had hardly a moment to think on it, for as soon as they were in place, Pegasus exploded forward, galloping through the pasture with enormous strides. The wind stung his eyes so hard that they watered, and he instinctively shut them, as did Tamara. So they felt rather than saw the uplift from the ground. Thus, both were blissfully unaware of the four steeds cascading through the forest path into the pasture, returning with neither Coachman nor passengers. 

Like any man, Killian had imagined what it would be liked to fly, and his experiences with _The Jolly Roger_ in flight had augmented his whimsy, wherein pure, unadulterated freedom always held a foothold. Reality, however, contained nothing of his fantasy; no, it was unbidden, endless terror that froze in the veins. It countered the heat of Pegasus's body and the warmth of the unnaturally close sun.

It seemed as if no time at all transpired before they touched down softly on the beaches outside the harbor. Tamara dismounted immediately, but he hesitated. He knew that they would be parting ways, and he didn't want to rush their goodbye.

"Thanks for the ride, Old Boy," Killian said as he patted the stallion's neck. "I won't forget it."

He knew that once he jumped off, the steed would surely embrace his newfound freedom, for Pegasus, too, had just escaped a prison. And Killian doubted he would ever see his like again, so he slid from his back with a twinge of regret. He stroked the stallion's neck one last time, and the finest of his hairs became stuck between his fingers as he pulled away. Then he stood aside and watched Pegasus rise into the sky.

* * *

As the Keeper of Stagrock Light, Killian could not risk any interaction with those at the harbor, lest his presence raise inquiries on lighthouse falling dark. As his youth had been whiled away around docks, it was easy enough for him to hide, but Tamara was displeased with the circumstances and did not conceal her suspicions that he was attempting to renege on their agreement. It made the hours considerably more tense.

Countless heroes had been released from the subjugation of the Stormbringer, and no less than five took posts in and around the Northmost Harbor. After three short hours, Tamara discovered two people who corroborated Killian's story of the Chamberlain, but as photographs were a rarity in this realm, she could not confirm his identity beyond a basic descriptive match. Rumor had it, however, that the Lawmaster retained custody of the Chamberlain, who awaited his trial with plans to pronounce himself guilty to forgo all the legal formalities. 

That was how Killian found himself planning a jailbreak with Tamara, who was dead set on freeing Greg that very night. He resisted the idea, insisting that it hadn't been part of their arrangement, but she wouldn't relent until the Chamberlain's identity was confirmed without doubt. Lacking visitation rights, her only recourses were illicit in nature, and seeing her determination, Killian gave up the debate and plowed ahead with assistance.

While he hadn't been to the harbor in a very long time, he had known the area very well during his time as the Recluse, namely the tunnels and short cuts that he once traversed to avoid prying eyes. He was able to map out her journey to the prison, but the extraction proved more difficult. For a successful venture, they would have to divide and conquer, one of them extricating the Chamberlain and the other providing a pilfered vessel that could swiftly remove them from sight of the shoreline. 

It had been his suggestion, though frankly it was one borne of selfishness, for every second he lingered at the docks was one second more he left Emma at in Cora's merciless hands. Though he knew not where such knowledge came from, something deep within him asserted that returning to the lighthouse was the next step in rescuing Emma. Securing a seaworthy craft that would enable their escape brought him closer to his own ends. 

He doubted the likes of Tamara and Greg would prevail against Cora, which meant his best chance involved acquiring two boats so they could part company. Elsewise, he would have to abandon them on Cellar Island to avoid any acts of betrayal.

Thus, when the cover of darkness was complete, Tamara left with a variety of borrowed items, and Killian scrounged for vessels. Fortune was kind to him, for he found a single-man paddler as well as a short rowboat that suited his needs. Being a man of good form, he stole the transport for Tamara and Greg first and moved it to the rendezvous point, ensuring his end of the bargain was upheld. He tied a fisherman's hook to a post not far from the obscured boat to mark the way, and that would have to be enough. There was no reason for him to wait for the treacherous toads nor assist them any further, for surely one of them could row. 

He could push off where he discovered the paddler and leave for the lighthouse. His mind resolved, he made his way back to the second vessel.

He nearly reached his destination, but as it transpired, he was not the only one moving about under the cover of darkness to obfuscate unlawful deeds. Before his last turn, someone with terrible strength set upon him, grappling him to the ground. Despite his will and his hook, his assailant overpowered him and robbed him of his breath, clamping down over his mouth and nose. 

He struggled, and the weighted dread of all mortals settled over his soul as he gasped for air. He had wrongfully assumed that the terror would grant him a burst of strength, but without inhalation, all he felt was a pervasive weakness pass over him as he flailed uselessly. Soon he crumpled under the attacker's weight as blackness overtook him.

* * *

Killian woke to a searing headache, and his heart pounded hard as he recalled the events that led him here. From the silence around him, he was far from the harbor and the sea, but the stars above made it clear that there were many hours before dawn.

Had Greg and Tamara caught up to him? No, whoever attacked him was stronger than any human, and there had been only one assailant, of that much he was certain. His mind was still foggy, but the veracity of the attack ruled out most of the criminal elements that subsisted at the docks. And surely Cora would've relied on magic to do her bidding, not brute force.

Then who the bloody hell abducted him?

Fury joined the throbbing pain, for any delay on his part put Emma in mortal peril. He clambered to his feet, ready to race to shore, however far off it might be. It was a foolish notion, but it gave him the potency, the vigor he required.

"Going somewhere?" a woman asked.

The speaker was an imposing woman who appeared larger than life, much like the Stormbringer, but in her case, it was something of an optical illusion, as her proportions were entirely human upon second glance. Her hair burnt umber, neither orange nor brown, with the finest streaks of silver-gold that light up against her olive skin when the moonlight hit it at just the right angle. Her eyes seemed blue, but a deeper look proved they were silver and purple.

"Aye, I've important things to see to," he replied.

"It will have to wait."

"Upon whose demand?" he asked. 

"Queen Hippolyta," she replied. "Surely even the likes of a lowly Keeper would know a queen when he sees one."

"Forgive me if I don't kneel," he said. "Given you ambushed me in the street."

"You have something I want."

"Interesting, because I have it on good authority that you have something I need," he said. 

"The Unending Flame?" she asked.

"Aye."

"Had I known you had the treasure you possessed now, I need not have wasted my time with such a trinket."

She held up a cube of amber light. 

"It's far from a trinket," Killian countered. 

"I'll be more than happy to give this back to you, Keeper of Stagrock Light," Hippolyta said. "In exchange, I want the golden thread wrapped on your hook."

"Why would you want it?" he asked.

"I've been looking for it for a very, very long time," she said. "I could scarcely believe it when I felt its presence in this realm again."

"So you found me by sensing this thread?" he asked. 

"No, I found you because you rode here on Pegasus," she said. "You have something of his nearby."

Killian remember the fine hairs that stuck to his hand as he patted the mythic horse goodbye. He had absentmindedly tucked them into his coat pocket, the fine strands weaving together into a splendid and unexpected knot.

"You abducted me for a thread?" he asked. "Why not just take it from me while I was unconscious?"

"I did try, but I couldn't pry it away," she said. "I believe it will only move should you choose to relinquish it."

"And you would happily give me the Unending Flame in exchange?" he asked. "And let me walk away?"

She handed over the amber cube, which was small enough to fit in his coat pocket. He could tell by the heat and the light that it was the flame from the lighthouse, but somehow magic contained it completely. He tucked it away as soon as he confirmed its nature, and Hippolyta made no more to protest. 

"Does that mean that we have an accord?" Hippolyta asked, her hand outstretched.

Killian glanced at the golden thread. He worried that the Orb Emma held would no longer work if he surrendered this thread, but he doubted the Queen of the Amazons would take no for an answer. So he tugged at the strand, and this time, it shifted easily off the base of his hook. When he pulled it off entirely, it seemed like little more than golden thread, about four inches long.

Hippolyta reached out for it and gently took it, cradling it in her hands as if it were the most prized possession in all the world. 

"Thank you, Killian Jones," Hippolyta said with a wicked smile on her face. 

The thread glowed a blinding gold, and in the next instant, Hippolyta vanished, leaving Killian in the middle of nowhere at the dead of night with no means but his own feet to make it back to the shore.

"Emma," he whispered. "I will find you, love. I will always find you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Greek mythology, the Moirai were the embodiments of destiny, often referred to as the Fates. They controlled the thread of life of every mortal, from birth to death, and each Fate had her own unique appointment as part of destiny. Clotho, the Fate who spun the thread of life; Lachesis, the Fate who measured that thread to allot each person with time; and Atropos, the Fate who cut the thread and selected the manner of death.


	30. Sisyphus, He Sat upon His Rock

Emma opened her eyes under a sky awash with stars with the soothing rhythm of the ever-moving water rippling beneath her. Her lips curled slightly as her hands grazed a familiar surface of coarse wood, and she reached out for the only missing piece that plundered this moment's perfection - 

_Where's Killian?_

The thought struck a sobering block that ignited the shroud of complacency around her, and all at once, pain, hunger, and thirst set upon her as kites to carrion. Ropes tore at her raw and bleeding wrists, and chains burned against her ankles and bare feet. She struggled fruitlessly, her efforts blunted by her sapped strength. Panic descended upon her, for she had been bound and cast adrift, possibly days ago. And Killian was... Cora had said he was gone.

"You are awake," someone said.

The voice was soft and warm with a hint of caution, and though she never before had heard it, she felt the resonance of a shared past. It was a weak glimmer in the dark, but it was all she had to grasp. She yanked herself up into a sitting position and slumped against the stern.

The man in the rower's seat was smaller than she expected, though by no means slight nor short. In many ways, he was exactly average, with calloused hands and a weariness in his face that had nothing to do with his advanced age. His scalp was bald, safe for tufts of white hair over each ear. Despite the perceived connection, she recognized nothing of this man except his eyes. She had seen them somewhere before, certainly, but not him.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Who are you? Where am I?"

"I'm no one important," he replied. "And we are presently rowing not far from Stagrock Light."

"Why?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "But circumstances as they are, you can imagine the answer is... unpleasant. Let's talk about something else."

She sucked in a breath and shook her head, no. She was too tired, too beaten, too wounded to trade banter with someone who surely was one of her kidnappers.

"Tell me about your son," he suggested.

Fury erupted inside her at the thought of this man daring to threaten her child. She couldn't have contained it if she desired such a thing.

"If you even think about harming my son - "

He interrupted, "I would never do something so vile! I only meant to suggested a pleasant topic of conversation."

Emma was incensed and indignant, but even that did not stop her so-called 'superpower' from recognizing that he was, in fact, speaking the truth. Not just about never harming her son, but everything he said had been true.

She measured her breathing and resisted the urge to lash out at her captor. The silence extended, broken only by the gentle slap of oar against water, and, very slowly, her anger burned lower and lower, till it was naught but a simmering, smoking ember.

"He loves stories," she said, starting quietly. "Writing them, reading them... graphic novels used to be his favorite, but recently he started to really love the classics. I guess it happened before we went to Camelot, but after our trip there, all of a sudden he was making a trip to the library every other day. He never loses faith. He never stops believing. I don't know where he gets that kind of optimism. Not from me or his father... or his adoptive mother, either."

It was odd that the man hadn't batted an eye at that last statement, for it wasn't common practice in this realm for adopted children or orphans to meet their biological parents. She couldn't recall a single story about any such person even looking for blood relations. 

"He sounds like a wonderful young man," he commented.

"He is," she replied. "Why do you care?"

"I have found that caring is the only real tonic for this world," he explained. "Caring, in the face of everything."

"What's your name?" she asked, not sure how else to steer the conversation.

The man's face broke into a wide smile, bright and true, that lit up the whole of his person, casting off several decades with the shadows.

"My lady, surely you know," he said jovially. "My name is Henry."

She started, not expecting to hear her own son's name, yet he had assumed that she had known already. There was no reason why. She had never met him before.

"Henry," she repeated as an idea dawned on her.

"Regina's father," he added. "Very pleased to meet you, Miss Swan."

"How - how do you know me?"

"You visited my grave," he replied. "And Cora told me of you, though she was too busy portraying you in a dark light to convey any truths."

"You know who... what Cora is?"

"Sadly, all too well."

"Then why help her?" she asked. "After all she's done?"

He gave her a morose smirk as he replied, "She may never have loved me, but she is the reason I have Regina. And despite herself, she did love our daughter. Besides, if it wasn't me, she would recruit someone else, and she would not do it kindly."

"Why are we rowing in circles around Stagrock Light?" she asked. "I don't care how unpleasant your answer is."

"Cora wants nothing more than to leave this place," he explained. "There is but one way for a soul to escape the Underworld."

"A trade of souls," she said, cottoning on. "But we're in the Underworld, so how does that work? The spell you're talking about only works when cast in a realm of the living."

"Apparently, the spell can free her soul to leave in exchange for trapping another," he said. "Thereafter, can escape, so long as she finds the door."

"The door?" she repeated incredulously. "The Underworld has a door?"

"Door, portal, exist... something to that effect."

"That still doesn't explain why we're circling Stagrock."

Of course, speaking those words fueled a theory that made her silent. Her face must've betrayed the thought, for Henry held his tongue.

"Cora thinks it's here," she said. "The exit."

"She doesn't want you to escape through it before she completes the ritual," he confirmed quietly. "I considered facilitating your escape, but I fear we wouldn't get far. I can barely see beyond the boat."

"It's all right," she replied. "Now that Cora's found me, outrunning her isn't really an option."

* * *

Emma and Henry let a lapse of silence fall between them. At some point, sleep captured her, letting the rest of the dark hours pass in the blink of an eye. When she woke, she was bound in the center of the rowboat, which was moored to a dock. She fought to sit up, but she was pinned down somehow... almost certainly by magic.

It took her several minutes of desperate trying before she accepted that brute force would not be enough to free her. As she caught her breath, her ears sharpened, picking up on two voices carried by some combination of wind and water. 

"Cora, please, I beg you to reconsider," Henry pleaded. "This is a dangerous risk."

"Darling, darling," Cora replied. "I'm touched by your concern, but we both know it's not for me."

"He lives for nothing but cruelty."

"All great rulers must be feared," she said. "Only the bravest, most brazen subject dare approach a leader like that. It weeds out the weak and others unsuited for the reward."

"That man could strike you down to ash!"

The sound of choking came across the water.

"He's not a man, he's a god!" Cora snapped.

There was a horrific _crunch_ followed by a short, wicked chuckle. Emma's heart began to pound hard in her chest as an anticipation of dread crept up on her, washing over all of her faculties.

Magic - her magic - reared up inside her like an incensed serpent, ready to explode into action at her command, and she channeled everything inside of her, from sorrow to fury, into the power born of True Love. She cast away every thought until her sole obsession was freedom. Her bindings withered, frayed, and fell away, and the wind shifted, as if a nearby wall had been removed. 

She went still and held her breath, straining her ears so she could hear anyone approaching. There was nothing but the wind, so she sat upright only to be hit by a wave of dizziness as black spots rolled through her vision. It was potent enough to stay her from standing in the gently-swaying boat, lest she topple into the salty sea for lack of balance.

As she waited for the spell to pass, she wondered after her deportment. She certainly seemed a sorry sight, if not for her bare feet and frayed garment, then for the tangled mess that had once been her hair. Her lips were chapped, and any skin that wasn't red or bleeding was horribly dry. She was so parched and ravenously hungry that she entertained slipping her captor for no reason other than to slake those needs that distracted her.

Distractions, however, remained a luxury she could not afford. For whatever reason, the magic binding her powers had waned, and while Cora was far from infallible, she rarely left things to chance. In all likelihood, the witch had set Emma free on purpose to draw her into the depths of whatever fiendish plan that unfolded in these very moments. Emma was ragged, injured, and without allies, and there was no upper hand to be had.

_I cut off his head and banished his body rom this realm._

The cruel monotone of Cora's words echoed in Emma's head, and her soul filled with the kind of wrath that collapses empires and valleys the highest mountain. Cora's curt statements, devoid of apology and concern, cut deep into the oldest, most wounded parts of Emma, drumming up the agony she concealed with half-truths and broken promises. 

_He would never stop trying to save you, to defend you..._

Then her heart joined the fray, echoing the sentiments and the loss that she felt, and fury nested its foothold somewhere that no light ever dared touch. Cora murdered Killian because of his devotion and love, and she told Emma about it as if remarking on the weather or discussing something as bald and common as felling a tree. And then she delighted in the agony she inflicted.

_I couldn't have that._

Had there ever been any element of her soul that dared resist the desire to destroy the evil witch who slew her love, it was surely snuffed out by those last remembered words. Killian died because Cora _couldn't_ allow him to live, and as sure as she was Emma Swan, she swore that Cora's own words would damn her into whatever the next hell looked like.

She hadn't noticed the brewing storm that snuffed out the weak morning light, nor had she witnessed thick and heavy fog running across the water and enveloping the lighthouse. When she rose inside the tiny craft, she could see nothing in front of her, yet her feet knew instinctively where to go and how to step. With every step, her body tensed, and magic rose from the core of her soul to the surface. By the third step, she was a radiant warrior, illuminated with silver-red light that no light to which no light could ever compare.

She vaguely registered Henry's collapsed body leaning against the outer wall of the lighthouse, but as he was no threat to her, she ignored him entirely and continued to the main doorway, where Cora waited.

"I see you've found your magic," Cora said. "Well done. But I'm afraid it's come too late. There's nothing you can do to stop it now."

The smugness with which she spoke and her complete lack of fear merely contributed to Emma's rage, and though she knew of no spell that could kill nor had weapon to best the witch with, she had every intention of ripping her enemy to shreds and banishing her from this realm. Just as she did to Killian.

"I don't care," Emma replied.

Cora's face faltered for a moment, but she quickly reestablished her air of dignified control. A patronizing smirk spread across her face.

"Do you mean to kill me, Emma Swan?" she asked.

Emma closed her eyes and screamed, and with her voice came a violent rush of energy that was simultaneously fire, ice, and lightning. 

There was a fraction of a moment, a fleeting flicker, where Cora realized her time had come and failed to school her features. It was but an instant, however, before the furious magic struck her and made any expression she may have worn meaningless. The blast casted her into the sky, and the fog and wind went with her, curling around her like a snack crushing vermin. As to Cora's survival or where she or her remains landed, no one could ever say, save for the fact that the fog traveled to the Northmost Point, to the great ice caps of Northedge.

Emma knew nothing of this, for the instant that she released the wrathful powers within, the will inside her crumbled. She had lost too much to lie to herself about the nature of her life, for being the Savior condemned her to a lifetime of sacrifices. Being born of True Love never meant that she had any hope of finding such a thing for herself, and when she did find it, she fought it. She resisted until it was too late to have, and then she followed that love into the Underworld on the foolish notion that all she need do was fight and good things would happen. She wondered in this moment if she had known this all along and deceived herself, that she could transmute her final act of self-destruction into an act of the heart. She was forced to concede that the possibility existed, and with that single admission, a thousand questions circled her like predators as every certainty she held became a doubt.

And it was too much for her to bare. Then even her condemned her, for the last thing she saw before defeat's maw closed around her was a horse suspended in the sky. That was impossible, even in the Underworld.

So she closed her eyes, and darkness took her.

* * *

Killian could not see the events that transpired beneath him, for riding a winged horse required an awkward position, lest his legs press against the wing joins. He didn't know why Pegasus returned to him after they parted ways on the beach, and he cared not for reasons any longer. What his eyes could not tell him, his heart translated all too clearly, and he knew Emma was in trouble. So he accepted his new companion's boon without preamble, and his only hope was that he would not soon regret the choice.

As they neared the lighthouse, a blurring roar of thunder crashed before them, and Pegasus flinched at the sound, rearing back and changing direction in a heartbeat. Before Killian could urge the steed to correct his course, however, a mist passed over them, moving with curious speed. Normally the touch of fog was cold and wet, but this seared and smarted as it rolled over them both. He grunted against his steed's back, but the stallion made no indication of ill feeling. Perhaps Pegasus was immune to such magic.

Then everything stopped, down to the wind and the waves. It was impossible, of course, for the tides were a force of nature that nothing could oppose. Yet his ears, which lacked nothing in ability, could discern no trace of them or the wind. He risked a glance down over Pegasus's shoulder and wing and discovered that his hearing did not betray him, for the world was absolutely still. 

The lighthouse, encircled by a sea serpent that appeared chiseled from the same stone, stood alone in a motionless sea, and a figure radiated light that rivaled the sun and so bright was her luminosity that he forced himself to look away for fear of blindness. All this transpired the span of a second, though to him it seemed an infinity thereof.

Yet it did end. That was to say, everything was as it was supposed to be, as if nothing had ceased to begin with. Killian could no longer rightly feel the directions nor sense where they were, so disorienting was the surge of return, but Pegasus turned again, leaving his rider with hope that they had corrected course.

Heat flared against his skin, quickening into a flame that he could not ignore. His hook awkwardly dug out the fiery token in his possession, and the amber cube that Hippolyta had given to him shined with red and gray light. He cursed himself for piercing its edge, for it seemed as if it might spill out at any second, surely consuming steed and rider alike. He held it aloft on the desperate hope that they might land before it burst; otherwise, he would have to drop it into the sea.

There was a clattering of hooves as they landed atop Stagrock, and Killian, unprepared, felt his body ripple harshly, every muscle sore and throbbing. He patted Pegasus's great neck again and murmured his praise and thanks before dismounting, careful to keep the growing ember at arm's length.

"Thank you, Old Boy!" he said.

Then he raced down the lighthouse, falling more than climbing the latter, and he hardly cared that his already-strained body protested every jarring leap and every misstep. He couldn't risk the flame expanding anywhere but its true home, the beacon room, for it would surely consume even the stone on which he stood.

He didn't even descend into it; no, he opened the hatch, leaned in at the waist, and flicked the amber box from his hook, angling for the curving corner. He didn't wait to see if he had struck his mark, and it was a proper thing to do. No sooner had it touched the floor of the beacon room that the Unending Flame regained its full and glorious light and erupted into a blinding beacon. Its shine took several minutes to fade, for its brilliance always adjusted to the realm.

The immediate danger dealt with, Killian remembered his reason for return as well as the distressing fog that rolled through him on his journey here. Though his flesh begged for rest, he could not allow it. Emma was in danger.

He raced down the inner steps. He wondered if new stairs appeared to spite him, for it seemed as if they doubled in number since last he climbed them. He took them two at a time, yet still he felt himself moving at a snail's pace. He chose to leap over far too many in the basement, his back protesting at the violent landing, yet he continued as if he felt no pain.

The doorway still had no covering over them, so he saw Emma lying on the ground, only a few paces from a man he didn't recognize. Both were unconscious. So keen was his focus that he didn't register the scorch marks as he cross over them.

"Emma!" he shouted as he lifted her in his arms. "Emma! Can you hear me, love?"

His fingers felt a pulse, strong and true, but it failed to bring him any relief. She was alive but badly injured, and he was hardly in a good way. Could he safely bring her inside before his own body gave out?

"Emma, love," he said quietly. "Please, Emma... please."

She twitched in his arms, then shifted, as if to get comfortable. He hesitated, afraid to believe that she was coming around when all reality told him it was at best wishful thinking. But then her eyes fluttered opened, and the beautiful jade emeralds that she hid behind her lids appeared like they had done a hundred thousand times before.

"Killian," she mumbled.

She lifted her hand, and he grasped it in his own. Joy - true, unbounded joy - filled his heart, and he pulled her close to him, lifting her head so he could hold her properly.

Her eyes fell upon the battered doorway before her, and with a flick of her wrist, wood from the heaviest oak in all the realms collected like moths to a flame. Metalwork also appeared, and suddenly a new frame and door rested against the lighthouse, which glimmered as if restored to its youngest days.

"It's beautiful," he said quietly. "But save your strength, love."

He helped her to her feet as gently as possible, though for all his trouble, she was far steadier than he. She grabbed his collar and brought his lips down over hers, and her lips and tongue made him question who was the greater pirate. Together they collapsed against the outer wall before the door, panting and laughing.

"Who is he?" Killian asked, waving his hand at the man only a few paces from them.

"Nobody important," someone else answered.

And just like that, his joy vanished, for the speaker had a voice like ice and fire, cruel and uncaring. Killian pushed Emma behind him and reached for his cutlass before he realized it was not there.

"Tut, tut," the speaker said. "There's a time and place, and this isn't it."

The man who stepped out of the shadows - which was particularly disturbing as it was morning and there were no shadows from which to step - had the air of a gentleman. He had a suit of fine quality and matching Fedora held in hand. There was no doubt that he was royalty of some kind, it was in his air and manner but also in his face and hands.

"Hades," Emma said, stepping out so she was shoulder to shoulder with Killian.

"You recognize me?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"No," she replied. "But Cora called you, didn't she?"

"She summoned me," he replied.

"To what end?" Killian asked.

"Waste of time, really," he said. "She wanted to trade souls, but as you already know, that kind of thing can't happen. Not with our deal."

"Our deal?" Killian repeated.

"Ah, yes, Mister Jones, not you," Hades said. "Just me and Miss Swan here."

"You made a deal with Hades?" Killian asked her.

"Oh she made a deal," Hades spoke before she could. "A blood deal. It was a very bad idea. And I still can't see why she did it."

"Our deal said no interference," she said.

Truthfully, she could not remember the terms of their deal, but she imagined if no one could trade souls with her, other obvious safety measures must've been put in place. 

"Technically, I can do whatever I want, with some minor restrictions," he bristled. "I'll admit it. I never thought you'd come this far. Too bad about Pegasus. Had that other lady not let you go, we could've counted that as number ten. But, alas, here you are, nine labors done with none to serve as your tenth."

"How can that be?" Killian asked. "This is the Underworld."

"I keep a clean house," Hades replied. "Besides, you had, what, eleven, twelve opportunities? I've lost count. If you haven't done ten yet, you never will."

"That's not what we agreed," Emma said.

"Hmmm," he commented. "I'm not here to stop you. Far from it. It serves me better if you succeed."

"Then help us succeed."

Hades smiled and blue flame erupted atop his head, and some part of him came to the surface before it burned out.

"You weren't the first," Hades began. "A long time ago, a venomous serpent bite a woman named Eurydice on her wedding day, and she died a few hours later. Her husband, Orpheus, couldn't accept her demise. He was a poet and musician, so what hope did he have in the Underworld, where only the greatest warriors hoped to survive?

"But his music... well, it was special. His music defeated the singing of the sirens, that's how beautiful it was. So he took up his lyre and played the sweetest melodies and cast Cerberus and every other guardian the Underworld has into a deep, deep sleep. He crept by the elm where ivory dreams cling and through the gates, then down, down, down... until he found her. But before they could leave, my judges captured them both and brought them to a tribune to decide their fates. Though truth be told, the decision was made before they were even discovery. More of a formality. 

"And there Orpheus stood, in front of deities the likes of which he only knew by the praise in his songs, and he asks for an audience. It was granted, so he played his lyre, and the tune... I've never heard its rival nor its equal in all my long life. All the blessed saints of Apollo had not played half as well before or ever since. To call it beautiful would be blasphemy.

"Even so, it was only music, and no matter the depth of its majesty, it ended like all other music. Every judge recovered from the tune and cast it off, like it never happened. Deities are spoiled with all kinds of splendor, and even we can miss something of real value when we see it. I confess, I certainly did. To me he was just one more mortal trying to cheat his fare, and no matter his talent, he should be no exception.

"But then I looked up and saw something that I hadn't seen in all my alive. A long time before even Eurydice's death, there was a man named King Sisyphus, a cunning man. I'll spare you the details, but he earned a very special punishment in the Underworld. He was told he could escape, and all he had to do was to push a boulder up a steep hill. He wasn't told that Zeus himself enchanted that stone to roll back down the to the bottom before it ever reached the top. Sisyphus is a man of impossible imagination and intelligence doomed to an eternity of frustration and futility. In fact, his intellect is part of the reason that he continues to move that rock. Sisyphus believes - honestly believes - that his cunning will save him from this, even after all this time. He can't stop. Not because anyone is forcing him to keep going. Oh, no, that would hardly be punishment. No, he can't stop because he's too smart to stop. Yes, Zeus designed his punishment very well.

"By all accounts, Sisyphus's plight is unending, except for a single respite. The stories go that Orpheus descended into the Underworld and played music in memory of his wife Eurydice, and his tune was so profound that all the world, from the Underworld to Mount Olympus, fell silent that they may hear. But truly, the greatness of his playing can be found in nothing more than this: a man damned by deities and condemned by his own mind to the point of a hardened soul stilled his endless efforts and sat upon the rock, that he could listen to the music and indulge in a fleeting moment of tears.

"Never before had Sisyphus halted his work, let alone settle on the stone as if it weren't his to move. So while my wary ear and jaded heart couldn't accept the truth of Orpheus's music, I saw its power," Hades said.

He folded his hands, weaving his fingers together, placing his palms delicately over his suit. He seemed calm, collected, composed, hardly like a deity ready to lash out at those before him. Then he waved two fingers, and the unconscious man vanished. 

"I let that man lead his wife out of the Underworld," Hades said quietly. "Not for winning a prize fight or seducing me. Not for charming me or presenting me with adequate tribute. No, I allowed it because Sisyphus, he sat upon his rock. Remember that."

Then Hades disappeared, leaving Emma and Killian clinging one another outside the freshly relit Beacon of Northedge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Greek myth, Sisyphus lived as the king of Ephyra, a cunning and crafty man whose avarice and deceit earned him a special punishment in Tartarus upon his final repose. Sisyphus was forced to push a huge boulder up a steep hill; unfortunately, Zeus enchanted the boulder to roll down to the bottom before it reached the top, forcing Sisyphus into an eternity of frustration and futility.
> 
> Many myths and legends describe Sisyphus's unending plight, which has but a single moment of respite. After Orpheus descended into the Underworld, he petitioned the gods with music in memory of his wife Eurydice, and what he played was of such profound beauty that all the world, from the Underworld to the heavens of Mount Olympus, fell silent. It was so moving that it even touched the hardened soul of Sisyphus, who stilled his endless efforts and sat upon his rock for a fleeting moment of tears.


	31. Roses for Harpocrates

Killian and Emma stood, stunned by Hades' words and abrupt departure. They waited in his aftermath for some kind of retribution to come, too exhausted to speak or even move, until the weariness of their days finally collapsed them together. Sweet relief followed as they plied one another with kisses and light, feathering touches.

"I thought I'd lost you," she whispered.

"Haven't I told you already? I'm a survivor, Swan," he replied.

The reprieve of reunion was short-lived, for the wind picked up with an icy thrill to its airs, lashing out in a furious tempo. Killian had experience many a storm brewing or a tempest nearing-to-pass, but these winds belonged to neither. He wrapped Emma in his arms, wondering after the unforgiving stone against her bare feet, which surely would turn blue if she spent another minute outside. He readied to lift her up and carry her inside to the warmth of his chamber, only to be stayed by a fearful tremble from below.

"Bloody hell," he mumbled. 

A braying whiney cascaded from above, and Emma cast a confused look up to the sky. It gave him a foolish notion, yet one that persisted in his mind despite all doubts.

He braced her against the wall, but it proved no point, as the shaking continued beyond the interval of uncertainty, boding a far greater ill in the offing. There would be no way to scale the outside of the lighthouse safely, but with any luck, they might have time to ascend the stairs within.

"Emma, love, we need to make it to the roof," he said. 

"But, the boat - "

"We're too close to shore for any vessel to be safe on the water," he interrupted. "Run, love. We need to run."

Beyond the hunger and thirst, Emma had poured nearly everything she had into the blast that cast Cora away. She barely understood how she remained standing. She couldn't imagine ascending the stairs in her current state, and even if she succeeded, what then?

 _Would he ever put you in danger?_ she thought, and she knew the answer without consideration. 

She swallowed hard and nodded her head, yes before walking swiftly to the door. It opened with hardly any strength and closed behind them just as readily, despite the movements of the earth. She hesitated at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, overwhelmed by the memory of dozens she'd climb before even reading a proper ladder. But it was only a moment, truly, and in the next instant she steeled herself, deepening her breath, and then raced up the stairs as if she were freshly rested and untouched by any need.

Killian hadn't noticed her reservations, for his eye fell on the large hiking pack. It was the only one they hadn't taken on their journey, but only because they had no need for its great size. It was folly to risk his life for a few spare trinkets, yet as Emma began the long climb up the stairs, he caught a glimpse of her poor cold toes and grabbed the bag without further thought.

Thus, as she ascended with the speed of Hermes, he stumbled about the bottom floors, collecting items from whatever storage closets he dared enter. His attempts weren't entirely successful, for many of their stores that hadn't been upset by the tremors were being shaking from their shelves even as he entered, forcing him to quit after the six door, when the bag was still quite empty. He ran to the midline so quickly a stitch formed in his side, forcing him to double over to catch his breath.

He stumbled into the kitchen and knocked anything he could reach into the pack, not caring if the next item might crush or tarnish it.

"Killian!"

Her voice was so hoarse, it pained him to hear it. He cursed himself as he returned to the stairs, worried that his request to run had been too much for her, but instead he found her leaning over the railing by his chamber door, the concern on her face so palpable that he could feel it even at this distance. He couldn't blame her. He had been so focused on gathering supplies that he failed to register the degree of the vibrations, which had intensified fivefold since they came inside.

"Go, love! I'm right behind you!" he shouted up.

There was nothing for it. Whatever he had acquired would have to see them through to their next destination. He tied the back tight around him, securing it as soundly as possible as he caught his breath. The panic in his belly threatened to consume him, but he reminded himself that a measured step was better than a rushed injury. He thought of Emma, how sickly pale she looked, how strong she must've been to climb in spite of her recent trials, and it was easy to calm himself. Then with a sure step, he climbed, and his only thought was that the pack was heavier than he anticipated.

Emma hadn't ascended the last ladder yet, for she couldn't leave without him. Neither did she dare stand on the roof without aid, for she was sure to faint. When she finally saw him appear from the hatch below, she nearly did.

"Emma?" he yelled. "Go, love! I'm right behind you. You'll need to get on first."

She didn't understand, but she still nodded her head, yes. She proceeded to climb, though her shaky arms slowed her considerably. By the time she popped open the hatch above, Killian was nearly on her heel.

Together they stumbled out onto the roof. It was a truly odd and terrifying sensation, for the lighthouse swayed as if with the wind, shifting constantly underfoot while shaking. The great winged horse Pegasus paced it, however, as if the beast were so surefooted even the dancing of the earth could not beset him.

She took his hand, and they raced over to the steed. She hardly had a chance to register finding her seat before she found herself leaning forward. Killian joined her, blanketing her body and wrapping his arms firmly around her. Had she not known better, she would've thought they were curled up together on some couch.

She didn't have time to protest the awkward position, for Pegasus took off at a canter, racing in circles for a few laps before leaping into the air.

The heavy beating of his wings muffled the sounds below, yet nothing could silence such a thing. For that reason alone, they knew the earth yet shook, yet its constant wavering no longer troubled them.

Emma dared not look down at first, fearing that she might be overwhelmed at the sight, but after some time of constant comfort in Killian's arms, courage spurred her to peek over the great stallion's shoulder.

She immediately regretted her decision. Had her mouth not already been dry, it would've lost all moisture in that instant, for the world beneath them churned like a great vat of milk transforming into butter. She couldn't see the lighthouse nor any true form above the water that might be land, but then again, it was all very, very far below. It was so far down, in fact, that she wondered how close they were to the sun, but a quick glance up showed her that her assumption had been wrong. They seemed nearly level with Stagrock's height in the sky, which meant they hadn't flown high at all. Rather, the earth had merged into the ocean, and the waters were falling deeper and deeper into whatever lay beyond them.

She closed her eyes and gripped Pegasus even harder, for all she knew, there was naught left in this realm save for she, Killian, and their steed.

* * *

Pegasus was unlike any steed in all the realms, though not for, as many would claim, the strange nature of his birth, wherein he sprung forth from the blood of the decapitated head of the gorgon Medusa, for many a splendid creature quickened into life upon the death of a fiendish and lethal beast. His from could've proven a burden, cursing him to live as an ungainly and therefore undesirable mount, but some otherworldly mercy granted him potency and grace enough to instead become the finest steed both on land and in air. Even so, that which set him apart came neither form his birth nor luck's fickle favor but rather his feat of ascending to Mount Olympus.

In the end, that was what made him the steed of the gods. He became the lightning barer of Zeus for a time, but he quickly grew restless of such a position and began to wander, seeking adventures of his own among the living. As for how he came to be in the Underworld, well, that remained a tale only whispered _sub rosa_ , for reasons mortals have been left evermore to ponder. 

Time lost its meaning and feeling, so neither Killian nor Emma knew how long they were in flight. When either looked for any sign of land, they saw nothing but an endless expanse of a blackened ocean stretching out in every direction. Though they never spoke of it, they both wondered if they had fallen back into Morpheus's Realm, where fantasy and the illogical conspired to delight and to terrify the soul. It seemed a fitting thought at a time when exhaustion persisted as the air around them numbed their hurts, but all the while, sleep remained elusive. 

They attempted conversation more than once, but it was a difficult thing to hear over the whooshing rush and great thumping emanating from Pegasus's wings. So they said as little as required to prevent straining their voices.

And so it continued for a very, very long time, but as with all things, it did not last forever.

For an isle of rock emerged in the east, appearing to stretch from the depths of the inky sea to the sun itself. Its height, however, seemed its only attribute, for otherwise it was a thankless piece of onyx with nothing but a single tree that gleamed and glowed. Had it not stood in its precise location, the cavernous opening along the western side of the endlessly rising column would've been entirely concealed, even from Pegasus.

Thankfully, however, the steed did not miss his mark, and so he dove down to meet his landing with ease. The abrupt motion in the otherwise monotonous journey shocked both riders to attention, which was fortuitous, as they were alert and aware before his hooves touched the unforgiving surface of rock.

"Thank you, Old Boy," Killian said before he dismounted.

He offered his assistance to Emma, but as soon as her feet touched the ground, they both collapsed onto the solid surface of stone, their muscles taught and tired after so long a ride. They somehow made it away from the edge and into the beginnings of the mysterious black cavern, where Killian riffled through his pack, producing stockings and shoes, then bread and cheese, and then a few carrots and a bag of grains. 

He offered Pegasus the last pair of these, perhaps unaware that the steed could live for a very long time with no sustenance. More than that, unlike Tamara and Cora, the two mortals before him now were worthy of the steed's trust, and the stallion favored the flavor and crunch of carrots and had no quarrel with grain. Thus he happily ate up the only food Killian had been able to gather for him. 

Meanwhile, Emma produced a number of water skins from under her outer coat, and Killian nearly laughed in relief. She had thought enough to grab the water skins they kept in the kitchen on her ascent to the roof, which was why they weren't there to fill his pack as he followed her up. It would not last them long, so they only took measured sips, no matter how much their thirst demanded. 

To forget their thirstiness, they turned to their stores. In normal circumstances, they would've separated the cheese and bread into cuts and crafted sandwiches, but so voracious was their hunger that they simply bit into the loaf and brick without ceremony. Brick and loaf both were soon gone, but at least for now, they had taken their hunger with it.

They must've fallen asleep, for they woke in one another's arms to find Pegasus standing outside the cavern. They did not discuss their lot, nor did they ask how the world had come undone save for this pitiful spot of land. They waited, and they rested.

"We should ration what we have," Killian suggested. "Let's see it then."

They unpacked the pack and discovered a pair of clean socks, two clean shirts, gloves, hats, and a number of small tools attached to a thick belt, which Killian donned as soon as he found. There was also a very squished dish of cooked beans and rice, a few vegetables, and another loaf of bread. Everything else - including a bag of dried beans and another of rice - required water, which they had precious little to spare. Still, he laid it out with all the rest, that they might consider their options. 

Emma laughed a desperate, mirthless laugh that filled the cavern with a ghastly sound that echoed on and on, as if the cave went miles deep.

"Swan?" he prompted as he reached out to her.

"What's the point?" she asked. "Killian, the entire world just crumbled around us. Literally. This rock is probably the only solid ground. Whatever we have, it's not enough. It can't be."

"Don't lose hope now," he replied. "We have each other. That's always enough."

"Not always," she countered. "It wasn't enough to prevent you from - from coming here."

"Aye, I died," he said. "If that didn't stop you, I hardly expect the world turning to soup to have any effect."

She gave him a weak smile before she collapsed into his arms, her strength and will escaping her without notice. He was right, of course he was right, but she had no more stamina for optimism. And she saw no way through the misery that engulfed them, no way home from this mire of a wasteland.

"Do you hear that?" she asked.

The question left her lips before she truly conceived it, yet it neither confused her nor put her off. Her instincts had already sensed a spot of light, and she was keen to follow it.

"The echo," he remarked, turning his head to follow the sound. "This cavern must run to the core of the earth."

"Let's find out," she said.

She started for the edge of darkness, but he grabbed her arm to halt her. When she turned with a confused look on her face, he felt compelled to explain himself.

"We'll hardly see anything without light," he pointed out.

Emma nodded her head, yes, before she looked over the few things at their disposal. None could serve as a match, flint, nor torch, and she worried her bottom lip at the prospect. If only they hadn't left the Unending Flame behind...

"Your magic, love," he whispered. "There's nothing else to light our way without casting a fog."

Killian felt as if he was pulled in a thousand directions, and Emma's outburst had mirrored his own inner demons all too clearly. He hadn't lived as a good man, so he deserved to be mired in never-ending punishments. The redemption he had scraped out in his last life had been too precious and too late to change his fate, but his faith in Emma never wavered. If there was some way out of this horrible place, she would be the one to discover it.

So when she hesitated at the suggestion of magic, his only thought was to support her, to remind her that she and she alone was capable of anything. Words felt woefully inadequate, and in the muddle of his thoughts, he reflexively reached out to her, reassuring her with a firm yet gentle touch, clasping her left hand in his right. No sooner had their fingers woven together then a great, hissing rumble sounded. With the next breath, a spark rose out of Emma's free hand, coiling around and around like a great, fiery serpent winding itself into a wheel. It continued until it took the shape of a tiny, fist-sized sun that cast light in every direction as it floated about seven feet from the floor, shining, as it was, just overhead between them.

His eyes fell on her face, and despite her disheveled hair and the dirt of several long journeys, the light revealed her beauty, though true be told, her smile radiated far more than the floating torch. It cast decades of hard labor from her, and no amount of grime could tarnish that sight. His lips curled against his will, and he regretted nothing of it. 

Emma went first, her right arm aloft with her palm up, somehow guiding the light so as to keep it in front of them, that it might illuminate their way. She squeezed his hand as she tugged him along, and he stepped behind her, forgoing a comfortable distance and following on her heel.

The cavern was narrowed till it was but a tunnel that was passable for anyone on foot, but it was too tight for a horse, even one of a normal size, let alone the likes of Pegasus. Killian wondered if the Old Boy was waiting on their return or if he was out flying through the clear, serene skies.

The pass opened up into an enormous cavern. The abrupt change made them both stumble over their own feet. She raised the light higher, increasing its luminosity so that when it floated twenty feet from the floor, just a few feet from the ceiling, it lit up the entire space, from the tiny passage to the circular edges. There was no other exit, but the walls had ornate roses carved in intricate patterns from the base at the floors up to the bowl-shaped ceiling where the designs continued and eventually entwined.

Beyond the peculiar decor, the cavern was empty, save for a stone statue of a young woman adorned with finery and clothed in resplendent dress, which contrasted her bare feet. For some reason, the statue captured her in an odd position, standing upright with her hands held out and cupped together. Whoever the subject, she had surely been a beautiful woman, for the statue could be called nothing if not stunning.

Sorrow lingered in this place, seizing the splendor and tainting it with sadness, much as it does in memorials or tombs. 

Killian found the words carved into the floor around her feet, in a manner similar to the roses that covered the wall and ceiling. The message must've been chiseled into the rock by hand, and a very fine and steady hand at that. The lettering had an obsessive protection to them.

"What does it say?" Emma asked.

He found it a strange thing that a sailor would know a language that a princess would not, but then again, she was no ordinary princess. Perhaps she'd never had the inclination nor the time to learn the classical languages like Latin and Greek, but the Royal Navy had instilled it in every officer, which was why he read the words as sure as if they had been writ in English.

"The Eternally Beloved Queen Persephone who brought True Love to the Underworld," he read out loud. "May her rest be peaceful."

"This is someone's grave?" she asked.

"Not just anyone, love," he replied. "Persephone, goddess of the spring time and wife of Hades. There was a tale of her being turned to stone with the head of the Gorgon Medusa, trapping her in the Underworld and assuring that the next spring would never come."

"Is that true? Has there been no spring since she's been here?"

"No," he replied. "I heard that tale as a young sailor, around the time my brother and I received our first commission."

"You mean, in this life?" she asked.

"No, from before," he replied. "The dastardly plot to strand the world in an eternal winter was thwarted. If you believe the things sailors say when too much ale has passed their lips, the full thaw came nearly a month late the year she was imprisoned, but even with the spring time goddess unable to return, her bounty reached the world."

"Because someone thwarted the plot?" she inquired. "Who? How?"

"No idea, love," he replied. "I always believed it to be a particularly boring tale. There was no reason to believe a word of it."

"So, Hades drops in on us, and then the entire world disappears, except for us, a flying horse, and his dead wife," she summarized. "Why would he do that?"

"You heard him, love," Killian said. "We've only one trial left to complete. Whatever the bloody hell the other nine were, I've no idea, but one more, and your deal with him ends in your favor. He can't have that."

"But he said he wanted us to succeed."

"Aye," he said. "Then he went on about some nonsense, vanished, and cast everything into the sea."

"And he said we were out of chances," she whispered. "He seemed truthful, but... he wasn't. Not entirely."

Killian shook his head, unsure of how such sentiments could help them now. It was clear that his cavernous space was all there was, with no passage anywhere else. Here they were, stranded in the middle of a wasteland where there was naught but a single grave and all the lamentations that came with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harpocrates was the deity of silence and secrets in Greek mythology. Eros, the god of love, presented Harpocrates with the rose his mother Aphrodite had given him so that the indiscretions of the gods would remain secret. Thus, the rose became associated with confidentiality, which gave rise to the Latin expression _sub rosa_ (literally, "under the rose"), indicating secrecy.


	32. Tyche's Spinning Wheel

Emma and Killian spent several hours exploring the cavern, scouring the walls for a lever or a marker that might open another passage, but they found nothing. Neither confessed the thought that perhaps there was nothing to be found anywhere, perhaps this realm was exactly what it seemed to be: empty. 

They retired to where they entered, and she wove a trail of glowing baubles to guide them back to Persephone's memorial, should they wish to return. He found Pegasus pacing this way and that, though he showed no other interest in leaving, and Killian felt a twinge of regret for not having brought more for the steed that had saved them.

She warmed some of their provisions, and they ate by the edge of the cave, where the rays of the sun graced their skin. The light felt weak, and it waned every minute with no sign of cloud nor dusk approaching. 

"How long do you think we have?" Killian asked. 

"Assuming we don't sink into the sea?" she prompted. "A day, maybe."

The answer rolled off her tongue before she had given due consideration to her wording, for what was a day in a place like this? Did the sun rise and fall as it did in other realms? The only hint that it yet remained in the sky was that some light still persisted, but even that she could not trust. 

She wracked her mind seeking a solution for the riddle Hades had put to them, but all that resulted was a throbbing ache that covered her forehead. She had hoped the sun might've relieved her pain if not the fresh air, but the saltiness of the wind only increased her woe. She put her head in her hands in a vain attempt to remedy her worsening headache.

"You all right, love?" he asked.

She nodded her head, yes, but she did not look up at him.

"You should sleep," he said quietly.

"I'm fine."

"Perhaps, but you still need rest," he said. "And there's nothing to do yet. I'll keep watch while you sleep a few hours."

Normally, she would've resisted the suggestion, offering to take the watch first for him to sleep, but even her stubbornness had a breaking point. She doubted she'd sleep, but perhaps if she curled up on the ground, the pounding in her head would abate enough for her to think straight. Thus, she looked up at Killian from behind her hands and nodded at him before moving to where they had collapsed together after their arrival, and without a single word in argument, she made herself as comfortable as possible on the ground and closed her eyes.

* * *

**A very, very, very long time ago in a Land without Magic...** a heptad of hapless souls boarded Charon's ferry to the Underworld, which in and of itself was an unremarkable thing, save for one curious detail: every soul arrived yet lived. The rarity of the occurrence drew attention from every otherworldly fold, and countless witnesses pondered the quest that bound so many to such a dangerous journey. Though the answer never confirmed, it was echoed from realm to realm, became a mantra inscribed in the stars, and transformed into a chorus for every new song. All of these things shared a core reflection of events: a good man must have died.

Why else would bandits and sheriffs, kings and queens come together? What other task but recovering a good man would garner the aid of the Dark One and the Savior? Surely, a man of important so great that a septet of warriors should march into hell to find him must have died. That story was whispered in a hundred private corners with thrill and excitement, though anything spoken thereafter was naught but pure invention by the speaker, for in truth, that story has yet to end.

Hades could not have missed this incursion into his realm even at his most distracted hour. His sole hesitation in reacting sprouted from curiosity, for while he knew who they sought, he possessed no knowledge of their capabilities nor will. So he waited until Charon brought them into his domain, where no mortal could conceal their heart from him. Then he set a fog of slumber over them, that they might be vulnerable to his inspection.

As with most deities, centuries had passed since last the unexpected cross his path, so he had no reason to suspect that any of the trespassers would prove so very... surprising. Of course, there were the garden variety "marching into hell to save someone" types, supported by those who owed a great debt to the aforementioned, or at least who bore significant guilt on that score. Yet, among them, they had not one but two touched by the Darkness of the Dark One.

Perhaps that should not have astonished him much, given the recent events that nearly turned loose every Dark One that ever existed, yet the older Dark One had not only willingly walked into the Underworld, he had returned to it, all at the behest of his younger counterpart, who had far less power and ability than he. On the surface, he opened the portal and accompanied the party for the sake of peace, but buried below his begrudging exterior, his motivations came from respect, even gratitude.

And that alone was reason enough for Hades to provide due considerations. He selected three of the seven to meet with him and ordered Charon to return the four others to the realm of the living. That was how Emma Swan, Rumpelstiltskin, and Henry Mills ended up in the Chamber of Echoes, a place akin to Limbo where Hades conducted much of his business with the living. 

He woke all three with the snap of his fingers, and none of them seemed surprised at the abrupt change in scenery or company. After a few seconds of verbal confirmation, they turned their attention to the stranger in the room.

"Ah," Rumpel said. "I believe introductions are in order."

"Not really," Hades replied. "Emma Swan, Henry Mills, Rumpelstiltskin."

"Who are you?" Henry asked.

"Hades," he replied.

The effect was immediate. Rumpel, no doubt, had expected something of his reply, though they'd never before met. Emma and Henry, on the other hand, were both clearly put off by the idea of meeting the deity whose realm that were invading.

Truth be told, none of the visitors, save Henry, considered their actions bold enough to draw the attention of someone like Hades. Emma moved in front of her son as if to protect him on pure instinct, for anyone powerful and unknown was far too great a danger.

"I didn't come here to fight," Hades said cordially. "And as for your companions, I've returned them, safe and sound, to your realm. As for you three, I know why you're here. You can't have imagined I'd simply let you talk a soul from my domain."

"I can split my heart," Emma said. "If I split my heart, he can live."

"Cheating death," he whispered. "Yes, I see the appeal to you, but tell me, what's in it for me?"

Rumpel smiled. "Are you offering a deal?"

"Your favorite," Hades relied.

"What do you want?" Henry asked, stepping out from behind his mother. 

"It's not entirely what I _want_ ," Hades answered. "I can't simply let you take him out of the Underworld. That would cause undo complication for me. I need it to be difficult. Impossible. Otherwise people would line up to be the next one to achieve it."

"But there is a way," Emma said, her voice brimming with hope. "There is a chance."

"A dangerous one," Hades said. "I believe a deal is in order. The Dark One will seal our contract, Henry will witness it, but then they must go back."

"Go back?" Emma repeated.

"Living souls aren't particularly welcome here," Hades explained. "Only one of you can make a pact with me and go forward. The rest will go back."

There was no suggestion in his voice, and Emma could read between the lines. Whatever his plans, her only hope was to continue following his rules for the time being. 

"And what of us?" Rumpel asked. "You said you delivered the other members of our company safely home, yet we've no proof of this."

"Am I right in guessing that any proof I would provide would not be enough for you?" Hades countered.

"Indeed," Rumpel replied, ever the business man. "For this agreement to be successful, I must insist upon a few articles that outline the safety of our return as well as Miss Swan's."

"Only if she succeeds."

"Yes, of course," Rumpel agreed. "But whether she succeeds or not, the safety of our return and of all Storybrooke and its associated realms from you and your agents must be secure."

Hades had few dealings that resulted in actual bargaining, and he could see that the Dark One's reputation was not exaggerated. It wasn't concerning, for Hades knew his way around contracts and loopholes. Yet, the Dark One seemed oddly protective of people and places he had no need to care for, which suggested ulterior motives.

"A hard bargain," Hades said. "For such a guarantee, I would require a blood binding."

"What's that?" Henry asked Rumpel.

"Necessary, apparently," Rumpel replied, after having correctly read Hades' expression. 

"I, to use your word, must insist."

"The brokers of such a deal must be from this realm," Rumpel pointed out. "I suspect it will be difficult finding anyone who would not be partial to your end of the contract."

His shrewdness did him justice, for a blood-binding ritual gave Hades a power over the subject of the contract that was unmatched by any other. Any broker that favored him would ensure that Emma would fail. Who lived in this realm as his subject without owning him any debt?

"The Fates," Henry said.

The suggestion startled everybody, including Hades, who had assumed that the comings and goings of daily life had clouded knowledge of places like the Underworld. The Fates neither opposed Hades nor supported him, even though they resided in his domain, they had no need to answer to him.

"Ah, the ideal suggestion," Rumpel said with pride in his voice. "Do you object?"

Hades disliked the suggestion, but he had no formal grounds for objection and had no desire to show any kind of weakness by protesting such a thing. Yet the annoyance was enough to drive him to punishment, and there was only one that he could contrive on such short notice.

"No, I do not," he replied. "But first we confirm the contractual obligations as you described. You will be dismissed when the Fates are called, leaving Emma and I to resolve the deals specific to her."

"Mom, you can't - " Henry began.

"No, kid, it's okay," she interrupted. "You've done more than enough. I've got this from here."

"But, what if he tricks you?" he pressed.

"Give me some credit," she replied. She turned to Rumpel and added, "Make sure Henry and the others get back safely."

"Of course," he replied coldly.

Hades waved his hand, and a contract appeared. He handed it over to Rumpel, which began a kind of tennis match between them. Rumpel reviewed the text, burned the contract, and summoned a new one out of thin air, presenting it to Hades. Back and forth they went, faster and faster, and for anyone who watched, it seemed as if they were no longer reading, only conjuring.

Until, finally, Hades handed a contract to Rumpel, and it all stopped. He reviewed the text three more times in quick succession.

"Miss Swan's binding deal will be made invalid and her safe return assured and immediate should the terms of this contract be violated," Rumpel said, reading out loud.

"Correct," Hades replied.

"And in return, both Emma Swan and Killian Jones will enter into a blood-binding contract mediated by the Moirai," he read out loud.

"Simple enough," Hades said.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Miss Swan?" Rumpel asked her. "There's no going back."

"I'm sure," she replied.

"Very well, then it's agreed," Rumpel said to Hades. 

The signatures of Emma, Rumpel, and Hades appeared on the contract agreement. Henry's name was added as a witness. Then Hades snapped his fingers, sending the boy and the Dark One away.

As soon as they were alone, Emma sensed a shift in the environment. Perhaps he was not a cruel man, but he delighted in triumph, which meant he had no intention of making her task fair. He snapped his fingers again, and a cycling wind disturbed them, driving outward and leaving them with three more in their company.

The three were women who seemed infinitely old with the kind of beauty that never faded.

"Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos," Hades introduced. "Your son called them the Fates, but they're known here as the Moirai. They have come to bind our contract."

"What are your terms?" she asked.

"To prove yourself worthy, you must complete ten trials. Six will be split between you and he, to be completed as three personal trials. The remaining four will be of my choosing and my design, but their resolution can be the work of either of you or both of you together."

"And what are the trials?" she asked.

"Oh, I haven't decided on the last four," he replied casually. "Let's just say, those will depend on the circumstances. I mean, who doesn't love a surprise? But, tell you what, since I'm a good sport, I'll tell you about the one that you'll never complete."

"I'm listening," she said defiantly. 

"You must admit the failure that led to this deal," he explained. "And all the fears that obscured you from that truth. Something you've never been able to do. So how's about it, Emma Swan? Do we have an accord?"

He extended his hand with an entitled smile on his face, so sure he was of his victory. And why shouldn't he be certain? She had no idea what the blood-binding would require, knew almost nothing of the trials ahead, and hadn't even had a chance to speak to Killian about any of it. Her mother might never lose faith, but Emma made something of a job of it, her doubts resurging at the worst possible times.

 _Do you want to save Killian?_ she asked herself. _Because this is the only way._

"We have an accord," she replied as she took his hand.

They shook on it, and a sharp prick to her palm made her jolt in surprise. She withdrew her hand and saw her blood pooling very slowly, and in the next instant, Emma Swan forgot everything she had ever known and was born again into a new realm and a new world.

* * *

Killian watched Emma sleep for a time, keeping a wary eye for signs of danger, though it seemed to him that the only things that existed in this realm now were he, she, and Pegasus. The only looming danger was a lack of resources, and there was nothing he could do about that.

She stirred in her sleep. At first it was a small shift, just enough to catch his watchful eye, but then she went into a full tossing-and-turning fit. He would've woken her, but as he went to her side, a sparkling something caught his attention as it rolled away from her. Curiosity peeked, he followed the shine and caught up with the orb that had apparently fallen out of Emma's pocket. 

It was the same that whispered to them about traveling to the New Stables of Diomedes to meet Hippolyta. He supposed, given the events that transpired, the guidance achieved the results required, but it did so in a rather roundabout way. He examined it closely, listening for any new whispers, but there was nothing, though it felt heavier and appeared bigger than he last remembered. 

"Killian?" Emma asked. 

She had apparently woken while he was distracted by her straying bauble. He turned to her to offer it in return, but as he held it out to her, he realized it was far too large to have fit into even the largest coat pocket, which her attire simply didn't provide.

"Where did you find that?" she asked.

"It rolled away from you," he replied.

"No, Cora would've taken that from me," she remarked, getting to her feet. "She must've because I tried to find it earlier. It wasn't on me then."

She reached out and touched it, gently swiping her fingers across the surface, but nothing transpired. She palmed it, covering his hand with both of hers, yet the only response was an increasing glow emitted from the orb.

"I thought it might tell us what to do next," she confessed. "Like it did the last time we both touched it."

Killian had expected the same, so he nodded his head, yes. Then he cast a wary glance to his hook, and he remembered his bargain with Hippolyta.

"It's my fault, love," he said. "The only way to obtain the Unending Flame from Hippolyta was to trade with her. She demanded the gold thread on my hook."

"Did she say why she wanted it?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "I should've thought - "

"Don't," Emma said, interrupting. "There's no way for either of us to know what's valuable in this realm. Let me see the orb. Maybe I can sense something from it."

She held out her hands, one over the other, cupped. In that moment, she was the duplicate of the Persephone's memorial statue, and it kindled a suspicion deep in his gut, the kind that alerted him to an approaching storm long before the first signs could be discerned. 

"Bloody hell," he mumbled.

Without further elaboration, he made for the passage with a very confused Emma on his heel. Had he made any consideration about his actions, he would've concluded that there was no need for haste, given the circumstances. But in the moment, all he could think was that any delay was pure folly. He raced straight to the statue, and before she could protest, placed the orb into the cold, stone hands before him.

"Killian, what - "

She didn't have a chance to finish asking her question, for another tremor rocked the ground beneath their feet. They grabbed for one another, both fearing the worst, but the vibrations ceased and did not return. Instead, a great mist formed like condensation on the outside of the statue, and a cyclone of wind swept through and curled around it. A horrible cracking sound, like the first fallen of a rockslide, and a fog exploded from the statue, forcing them to stumbled backwards and away.

They both looked back as soon as possible, and though it took a few minutes for the smoke to clear, when it did, the memorial had gone. In its place stood a sharp-looking young woman with pretty eyes and a lively spirit. She gave them a graceful curtsy and a very wide smile. 

"Ever so nice to meet you, Emma Swan and Killian Jones," she said. "If you like, you may call me Persephone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyche was the goddess of luck, chance, and fate in Ancient Greece. Songs and prayers to her often mention her using various methods to randomly determine fortune, good or ill, such as selecting cards or spinning a wheel.


	33. The Kiss of Achlys or, Achyls Awaits

The goddess paced the length of the chamber, walking this way and that in the silence, examining the ornate carvings in the wall. Even when they spoke, she continued to explore, as if stopping would result in cataclysm. 

"Persephone," Emma repeated in disbelief.

"Yes," Persephone replied. "While you may have many questions, I am afraid there's no time. We must leave at once."

"Forgive us, but... you were a statue only moments ago," Killian said. "This area is nothing but a wasteland and this... memorial for you."

"Memorial..." Persephone said thoughtfully. "I see."

She marched down the passage, forcing the two mortals with her to catch up in order to follow. She seemed very determined in her step.

As soon as they matched her, she asked, "How long have I been here?"

"We don't know," Emma replied. "But whatever event you're hurrying off to... you've probably missed it."

Whatever Persephone planned to say disappeared when she saw Pegasus. The two of them had a reunion that only the closest of friends might share, and the goddess radiated light from the smile it brought her.

"Why are you two still here?" Persephone asked.

"Well, previously this realm contained a bit more land," Killian explained. "We lived in a lighthouse, but it has since fallen into the sea."

"This wasteland is a place between the Dreamworld and the Underworld. It has no true form beyond what you see here, until someone makes it so. So now that it no longer has a form to sustain you, why are you both still here?"

Emma spoke up this time, "Where else would we go?"

"You woke me with the Orb of Dione," Persephone said. "Such a gift can only come from the Moirai, and there would be no reasons to give it to you without one of their Threads."

"A golden threat?" Killian asked.

"Yes, the Thread of the Moirai," she explained. "It can lead living souls out of the Underworld."

Killian cursed himself silently. He had traded away a gift that could've helped them escape this realm. 

"We traded it away," Emma replied. "To restore the beacon of the lighthouse."

"To who?" she asked. "Who demanded it in trade?"

"Hippolyta," he replied.

Persephone smiled as she said, "Well, I suppose it was her time to escape, assuming she had time to use it. That would explain why Pegasus brought you here."

"Because now we're trapped here forever?" Emma asked, not bothering to conceal her concern. "Since this is the only piece of land to stand on, there wasn't much choice."

"No, of course not," Persephone said. "Pegasus brought you to me because I am the goddess of the spring. I live in the Underworld until the spring, when I return to the world. Without the Thread, Pegasus could not guide you home, but I know the way."

"And you'd be willing to show us?" Emma asked.

"Not show," Persephone replied. "I have been away from the world too long. No, I will go with you and lead the way. It is the least I can do to repay your kindness."

"Aye, and earn our gratitude for it," Killian said.

"There is something I must tell you," Persephone said, her voice adopting a sullen tone. "Pegasus and I can lead you through the breach that will take you to the gateway between the Underworld and your realm, but as mortals, your path will diverge from ours. You cannot tread where we tread, and I am afraid the way will not be easy. Especially not for you."

She indicated Killian.

"I can see my husband has reunited body and soul for some reason, but it is bound to this realm," Persephone explained. "Which means you cannot pass the final gate unless someone gives their life for yours."

"We can share a heart," Emma spoke up. "My parents did it, and so can Killian and I."

"So you mean to split your own heart at the gate?" she asked.

"I hadn't gotten that far in the plan," Emma admitted. "Would it be better to do it now?"

"No," Persephone said. "To do it now would likely kill both of you. In order for what you suggest to work, you must step out of the Underworld before you remove your heart. Then you can split it freely."

"But I cannot leave the Underworld until it's done," Killian pointed out. 

"I can only hope that the challenges you've faced have prepared you for this," she said. "Shall we go?"

The coupled wanted to leave more than anything else, but the sudden hiccup in their plans made them both hesitate. What would be the point of everything they had just lived through if Emma couldn't pull him out of the Underworld at the end?

"You said the way wouldn't be easy," Emma began. "What did you mean?"

"The way between here and your realm is Limbo," Persephone explained. "It was never meant to be a place where anyone or anything dwelled, save for a few guardians that protect the gateways. To prevent mortals from lingering in Limbo after death, the road is... unpleasant. It drives them to one of the rivers, which always lead to a place of judgement. It is not uncommon for souls on this path to become lost and confused or to forget who they are and why they are there."

"We'll forget who we are?" Killian asked.

"Passing through the gateway to Limbo alone might cause amnesia," she replied. "Temporary, of course. But the longer you stay in Limbo, the worse your experience."

"And what do we do then?" Emma asked. "If we can't follow you, how do we know which way to go?"

"Follow the red river," she said. "Always go opposite the direction it is flowing. Always. Even if it doesn't make sense. Eventually you will come to the Gates of Fire and the Gates of Storm, which are illusions meant to distract you from your path. The souls of the dead in particular are drawn to these, but pass them you must. When you do, the river will be gone, and instead there will be a path with many guardians and sentries. Hades has marked you both, so none should harm you. Pass them, and you will come to the final gate, outside which is an enormous Elm tree where ivory dreams roost. It will tempt you to idle your time there, but be warned that the longer you remain, the more likely you will be forever trapped. Once you pass the tree, you will meet the ferryman, Charon, who can take you back. Should he refuse and no other vessel be available to you, you must keep asking him to take you back until he does."

"So, we must walk in the opposite direction of a red river, avoid the illusionary temptations from two gateways and a tree as well as the guardians and sentries of the Underworld itself, before insisting that Charon bring us home," Killian summarized. "And that is, of course, assuming we can remember any of your instructions after we pass into Limbo."

"I am afraid there is one more thing that may have escaped your consideration," Persephone said as if he hadn't described an impossible task. "How long have you been in this realm?"

Neither answered her immediately, for both had felt as if they had lived for eons, from babes to adulthood and beyond, while living as their cursed selves. Though it was absurd, it felt too real to be illusion, which meant they had probably been in the Underworld for a very, very long time. 

When they did not answer, Persephone said, "Time here works differently than the realms of the living. However long it felt to you, it has likely been much longer."

"How much longer?" Emma asked.

"I can't be certain," Persephone replied. "Twice as long? Ten times? I have been... unable to sense such things for quite some time myself."

Emma turned to Killian with an expression that reflected his own helplessness, for their time here had been at least a lifetime, which meant everyone they had known in Storybrooke was long-since dead.

* * *

Persephone did not attempt to force them to speak, for she knew too-well the reason they fell silent. She wanted to ply them with reassurances to ease their suffering, but she could tell that they had weathered the worst this realm could muster and yet stayed their course. Surely they would prevail with no need on her part for optimistic falsehoods.

Or perhaps that was her own hope clouding her judgement. She was, after all, the goddess of the spring, and it was in her nature to find the smallest, withering husk of hope no matter the desolation of winter's grasp. That was who she was and who she had always had been.

Nevertheless, she wasn't content to tarry in the wastelands that had hosted her own grave, not even for the sake of the heroes that issued her rescue. It was perhaps a selfish unkindness for her to insist upon an immediate departure, but she told herself that it was necessary. The longer a living soul remained in the Underworld, the more difficult the escape.

In an effort to coax them into action, she mounted Pegasus, opting to ride hide on the steed's shoulders with her legs on either side of her neck. Killian responded first, leading Emma and giving her a boost. He joined her, and together they settled, coiled together, no doubt closer to the hindquarters than they desired, all without uttering a word of question or complaint.

"Once we arrive at the portal, we will have to traverse it," Persephone said as she signaled Pegasus to ready. "Hold fast. You never know when you might get wet."

"Wet?" Killian asked. "What - "

His question was lost in the furious pounding of Pegasus's hooves against the rock-hard ground. He went full-canter to the edge, falling more than leaping into his flight. Persephone reveled in the sensation of freedom, but the harsh, cold winds forced her traveling companions to close their eyes, lest they sting with tears.

Killian and Emma both dared a few moments now and then to peek at the world below. It was just as desolate as it had been during their first flight together, save for a pinprick of light somewhere on the distant, distant horizon. As they approached, they both caught a few glimpses of something that looked rather like a great tower reaching up to the sky with the faintest hints of a stone sea serpent wrapped around its form and a great, blazing light shining from its roof. They both rejected the proof that their own sight provided. So much so, in fact, that they stopped their attempts to see what they neared to spare themselves the cruel tricks of their eyes.

Had their hearts not been so hard, they would've known that Stagrock Light indeed survived. Moreover, they would've realized that the gateway betwixt this realm and Limbo was not, as Cora had suspected, near the lighthouse proper. Emma might've even recognized the location, for it was where the Graham followed the wolf into the ocean, his soul's tumultuous storm done and passing into its rest.

Alas, they learned neither fact before Persephone called Pegasus to dive, and likewise they were unprepared for the abrupt descent into the icy, salty sea. The shock had little time to set in, for naught but darkness and silence lay beyond the water.

* * *

The roaring of a great river woke Killian, and the icy darkness clung to him, decreasing in increments but never truly abating. He wondered if the cold came from the wetness of his garments, but as soon as he thought it, he realized that he was dry. He blinked rapidly in a vain effort to overcome the dimness and allow his eyes to adjust, but the world refused to come into focus.

"Hey, uh... hey," Emma spoke, her voice nearly lost to the river. "Are you okay?"

"Aye, love," he replied. "It's just a bit dark."

"What are you talking about?" she asked. "It's too bright."

For, indeed, they stood under a clear sky with the blazing sun overhead, and so powerful were its rays that she had to squint to see much at all. Between the blinding light and the deafening river, it was a wonder that she found him in the first place, even though she knew that she would always find him.

"Killian, what... where do we go from here?"

The uncertainty in her voice jarred him, for fear had wormed its way inside her in a way he'd never before witnessed. Had she lost hope? Had her faith in him faltered already? He couldn't blame her. He was blessed that she had held out this long.

"Killian," she repeated, her voice shaking.

Habit spurred him to the familiar action of reaching out to comfort her, which so much was his wont that his hand found its mark without his eyes to guide him. Once his fingers grazed her shoulder, her hand came to his, and the ills of his mind fell away. 

"The river," he said gently. "Something about the river."

His words stirred her memories, simultaneously drumming up not enough and too much. She remembered someone providing instructions, but a haze hovered over her recollection, casting a doubt over every syllable and throwing its entirety into confusion. Certainty returned at an agonizingly slow pace, and only so long as she maintained physical contact with Killian.

As if she required another reason never to let him go.

"Opposite the current," she said as her hand tightened around his. "We have to follow it to its source."

"Lead the way, love."

She walked to the edge of the river, but the glare off the water obscured its current. She anchored herself to Killian, and he instinctively grounded himself and wrapped his arm over hers in support. Emma leaned out over the river, approaching as close as she dared to its surface. What she saw nearly made her recoil, for its currency was neither sweet nor salt water. No, this river was of blood, and it flowed south with an unmistakable sluggishness, which meant another body of water must be roaring not far off as this one barely whispered as it went. 

Emma retreated with care, fighting her instinct to flinch as well as gravity, with Killian's assistance. Once upright, she stepped into his embrace, desperate to cleanse her palate, to hold on to something true and good, that it might shine a light into the darkness haunting her, threatening to overwhelm her. So she held him closely and fiercely, and his arms clasped her to him, doubling the strength of their embrace without hesitation or question. She breathed in the salt of his skin as she absorbed the radiating warmth of his core.

She ached at the prospect of letting him go, even if only an inch.

It occurred to her that she didn't have to release him, that they need not continue on this journey nor face its countless dangers. And, truly, what was the point of this venture? Storybrooke had been her home, but could she still rightly call it that when all she had known and loved gone? With how precious little they knew, Storybrooke may no longer exist. It could have been cast back into the Enchanted Forest, or subsumed into the real world, complete with Main Street bulldozed for the sake of some awful shopping center. They might escape from the Underworld only to be stranded in a Land without Magic with nowhere to go and no one to help them. Her mind conjured a horrid collage from the innumerable dystopian films she'd ingested during her twenty-eight years of solitude.

Was she honestly willing to risk losing the love of her life to return to a land she no longer knew?

"Emma," he whispered, drawing her from the mire of her thoughts. "The longer we stay here, the more difficult the path."

His reminder eclipsed the gloom of her recent logic, for it had been rooted in the assumption that they could remain here, unharmed, forever. It was a cruel imagining borne from fear, specifically that of losing the one tether to love and happiness that she yet held on to. Remaining here would do nothing but guarantee a painful and permanent separation. She reluctantly pulled away, though her left hand refused to part with his right. She took a moment to gage her bearings, and then she walked north with measured steps, aware that dangers lurked all around them, stalking them like predators out for the kill.

The only comfort Killian had was the warmth of her hand in his own, so he held on with all his strength. Following her came easily to him, as any sailor who knew a strong and true captain - a good man in a storm - on sight. Even with his sight failing him, there was no question in his mind that his feet should follow her as much as his heart.

The trouble was, both grew heavier with each passing moment. Soon he struggled to keep step with her, for whatever burned that fell upon him was his alone. His memories remained elusive, but a faint yet fervent thought rose to the surface: this would be harder for him than for her. 

He could ask her to match his speed, to slow down, that he might keep up with her without exhausting himself, but he worried that such a request would result in a crawling snail's pace. The longer they remained here, the more dangerous it became, especially for her. And he would not let any peril befall her soul.

So Killian Jones put everything he had into overcoming the heaviness inside of him, to ignoring the nagging doubts, to keeping his stride as strong as hers. He dared not consider what might happen when his strength finally failed him, neither did he think on what he would do if the whispers overwhelmed him with sorrow and suspicion. His thoughts were focused on one thing and one thing only: saving Emma Swan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Greek myth, Achlys was the personification of misery, sometimes referred to as the eternal night.


	34. The Elm where Ivory Dreams Roost

Emma felt Killian's pace gradually slow, and she did her best to match his step, lest he notice that it was he that set their tempo. She could see two structures in the distance that surely heralded the river's end, which meant their journey would soon be over.

They kept walking for a very, very long time, and when she cast her eyes up to the horizon, she saw that they were no closer to whatever it was they were approaching. They pressed on, and a thousand minuscule steps later, again she looked up to discover they were no closer. She halted so abruptly that Killian crashed into her.

"Love?" he asked.

"We're not any closer," she replied. "We should be almost there."

He heard the terror creep up in her voice, so he wrapped his free arm around her and pulled her tight to his chest. The aromatic oak of her hair drove away the rueful stench that had overwhelmed his nostrils since they woke in this place. She reciprocated the hug, nestling her head between his shoulder and neck as she trailed her hands up his back. She sniffled against him, stifling her emotions as they embraced, and it made his heart ache. And that made his memory stir.

"The river," he said. "Which way does it flow?"

"We checked," she replied. "We checked before we started walking."

"Aye, love," he conceded. "But this world isn't like our own, Swan. It doesn't follow our rules."

She nodded against his chest in agreement. They had followed the instructions exactly, so any lack of progress must have an explanation. In this case, the only justification was an illogical one: the river's current must've changed.

Reluctant though she was to leave Killian's warmth, she stepped back and turned to the river. The clarity of her sight surprised her, for she saw the flow even at a distance, when before she had to lean over the bank for a glimpse of the movement. Sure enough, they had been following the current instead of going against it. 

The thought of redoubling those countless steps was like a punch to the gut. She felt weary to the bone, exhausted to the point of tears, and she didn't know why she was doing any of this. 

"Swan?"

His voice went straight to her heart, and though her strength was sapped beyond endurance, the simple reminder that she was fighting _for_ something raised her spirits out of the looming pit of despair. 

"Come on," she said, gently tugging his arm. "This way."

Neither commented on the gloom in her voice nor the sadness that she could not conceal. They renewed their journey with grasped hands and heavy hearts, gaining precious little ground as they went. She decided not to check the horizon, for she was certain it would deceive her again, given the opportunity. Instead, she frequently glanced at the river to check their course.

They didn't speak as they walked what felt like hundreds of miles. It was enough to feel one another, to hold fast, as they made their way toward the source of the river. Whenever Emma noticed that the direction of the current changed, she altered their course without comment, and he followed her lead without question.

Though they managed a steady pace, apathy and fear became stronger with each step. After a very, very long time, hopelessness lingered over them like an unwanted third companion. 

So when the current began to alternate direction more and more frequently and their walking became like a futile zigzag of repetition, neither was wholly prepared for the absolute desperation that their nonsensical movements inspired. Every turn became another straw that strained their resolve, threatening to break it entirely. Finally, Killian could take no more, so he stopped. When she pulled on his arm to get him moving, he released his grip on her.

Emma hadn't let go of his arm, so she yanked hard enough to force him to step forward. 

"Go," he said. "I can't anymore, Swan. Go."

Emma augmented her grip on him by adding her free hand over the other and began to drag him along, one step at a time. He shoved one arm away with more strength than he knew he had.

"We're almost there!" she shouted.

He was too startled by the decibel of her voice to realize that she had spoken a lie. It was enough to shake him from his stupor and follow her again, though he knew his strength would soon fail him again. 

How many steps more they took, neither would ever recall. What they would recollect, however, was that there was one final step that ended it all. The river raged on beside them, yet the fog over them lifted and their senses cleared. It was as if they both woke from a long, disturbing dream that had eaten away at their rest rather than restoring it.

That same final step left them at a fork in the river, where two enormous gates barred two unfathomable walls. Both were a glum and dim gray, but one rippled with a rolling red while the other flickered with a bright blue shade. They were absolutely terrifying.

But then again, all beautiful things were.

Killian heard a voice behind each, though neither was more than the faintest of whispers. The red-gray gate promised serenity and comfort, a final reprieve after the long-burning crucible of atonement that had been his life and afterlife. The blue-gray door spoke of absolute redemption, that he might be born anew without the taint of his past sins haunting his every action. He was struck with the desire to pass through one or the other, to free himself of the burden of his mistakes and failures.

"We'll have to jump," Emma said.

"Jump?" he repeated absentmindedly as he withdrew from the cocoon of his thoughts.

"To the other side," she explained. "It's the only way we can keep going. Between the river and the walls, we're boxed in on this side."

It was true that the bloodied river split and disappeared, each fork under the wall of one gate or the other, though how he had missed such a fact before went beyond his understanding.

"Good thing it gets pretty skinny right there," she continued.

She pointed to a stretch where the banks were scarcely three feet apart, an easy feat even for two people so exhausted by their trek. He nodded his affirmation when his reply stuck in his throat. Emma walked toward the gates for several paces before she came about and faced the river.

"A running start," she said by way of explanation. "Just in case."

He smiled with pride as he witnessed her rush fearlessly toward the river. She leapt to the other side and landed with plenty of room to spare, and then she turned back and beckoned him to join her. 

Killian retraced her steps, but doubting the length of his jump, he went farther for a more generous lead to bring up his speed. Perhaps he afforded himself too far a distance, for Emma called after him. The treble of her voice betraying her apprehension. Her profound concern spun him around like a reeling whip. It was only then that he realized how far he had gone, how close had had gotten to the two splendid and horrifying gates with their many murmured promises. 

His journey could end right here. All he had to do was run to one of the doorways of absolution, and his cares and woes would be cauterized by flames or torn apart by wild, ferocious winds. It would be a rightful and dignified end for a pirate who dreamed of becoming a hero. It was certainly more than he deserved.

"Hook!" Emma shouted. "Killian!"

His eyes rose to meet hers, and there he saw such a fear - so devastating and absolute - that he dared not look away. Had he not sworn only hours previous that he would save Emma Swan? Was his will so easily swayed that a few vague mumbles were enough to have him break that oath? 

Killian Jones was a pirate, which meant he could not be bought by paltry trinkets like peace and redemption, not when he could yet earn those very gifts through keeping his word, fulfilling his duty, and above all, by his love for her.

"Killian!" she cried out again.

He shut out the allure of the gates by running hard and fast to her fearful eyes, barreling toward the bank before throwing himself to the other side, where she quickly collided into and collapsed against him. 

"What were you _thinking_?" she demanded.

"I wasn't, love," he replied. "Thankfully, I had you to remind me."

She peppered his face with kisses as she pulled him close, and so infectious was her euphoria that he loosed a laugh like no other that surely shook this and every Netherhell that stemmed from the hub of Limbo as it echoed through the continuous emptiness that went on and on and on.

Had they taken a moment away from staring into one another's eyes, they would've seen that they stood at the foot of a great, winding path and that neither the gates of broken promises nor the river of blood were anywhere to be seen. 

When the laughter subsided, they wound their fingers together and started down the path of many dangers, which brought them by marauding manticores and titans that could crush bone with little more than a thought. Yet upon their approach, the creatures turned away and paid them no heed, as if they were less than shadows to the sentries of the Underworld.

For all the fortuitousness of their current journey, though, a heavy mist collected around them, and in that fog was the deepest, most sorrowful regret that any mortal soul could ever know. For Emma, it was the shadow of everyone she had ever failed, and for Killian, it was a glimmer of every person he had doomed for his own gain. Though neither saw what the other suffered, they drew close for safety as they continued to move forward. But soon, so great was the amassing regret that the fog no longer concealed their numbers. Along every inch of the path was another face, another reminder, and once they were passed, they crowded the way behind them, following on their heels. 

What started as whispers escalated to a cacophony powerful enough to drown out the howls of Cerberus himself.

"You said you'd come back," David's voice echoed in Emma's ears. "You promised me you'd come home. I waited for you for years, but you never returned. And why? Why did you leave us? For a pirate! Because you loved him more than you loved your own family!"

"Why should you live?" asked a man who died at Killian's cutlass. He never did learn his name. "Tell me, why should you live? You sliced me down the front and left me to bleed out in the gutter, all so you could prove you were the ruthless Captain Hook! So why should you live when I didn't get a chance? Those who live by the sword die by it, and they should stay dead! Thief! Murderer!"

"You _always_ dreamed that your real parents would turn out to be spies or heroes who gave you up to protect you," Snow's voice accused Emma. "But when you found us, you weren't happy. We were a literal dream come true, but that wasn't enough for you. _We_ were never enough for you. You kept us out with your walls until the day you abandoned us! You called us family, but in the end, you left us like we were nothing."

A crewman who Killian made walk the plank spoke, "You'll make it to the edge with everything you long for so near you can taste it. And then it'll all be snatched away in an instant. Just like you did to me, you murderer!"

"You abandoned us," coursed through her mind, just as a his was naught but a chorus of "Miscreant! Scourge! Murderer! Blackguard!"

The voices wouldn't abate; in fact, they grew louder and louder up until the moment that they reached a cavernous stone archway with heavily barred doors that hung open. By then, it seemed, the could grow no louder, and they began to fall away.

Emma pressed on, hoping the illusions would pass, and when a single voice remained, she knew there was only one person who would yet speak: Henry. But it wasn't his voice as she had known it, with the youthful, not-yet-masculine timbre of puberty. No, this was his voice as a man, his voice as she had never gotten to hear it, low and bitter for living and dying without seeing her again.

She froze for the dread and horror of that thought. How could she have left him? How could she have abandon him a second time?

 _How many children did he have?_ she wondered, for surely he had been a great father. _How many of his children's children know his name? How many of his descendants knew the stories of his family's adventures? How many told the countless tales he wrote as the Author?_

And that one blessed hope that some part of Henry lived on unstuck her, moved her, and brought her to an enormous old elm tree with leaves of the finest pearl, contrasting the wretched darkness all around it. She couldn't tear her eyes away, even if she so desired. But why would she? Who would want to look away from its sumptuous form and majestic incandescence?

Killian watched her, a beautiful goddess standing before a tree with radiance to match her, made all the more resplendent when wind fanned out her golden tresses and rustled the ivory roosted on its branches. She was outside the gate, free of the Underworld's perils, and thus, his oath fulfilled. Emma Swan was saved.

The victory was stolen from him by the mob of rue, which reminded him that he was a thief, a liar, and a murderer who deserved neither love nor freedom.

 _I deserve to be trapped here_ , he thought. _I am nothing but a villain._

"No, you're not," a man spoke.

The speaker's words were firm and true, and by some power beyond lament, punishment, and volume, this man blotted out the other voices, which swiftly fell silent after his pronouncement. One after another, the instruments of his castigation ceased their anthem as the fog vanished, leaving but one ghostly spirit in the shape of a man Killian neither thought nor desired to see again. Truth be told, he had seen this form countless times before, standing under the full moon next to the Ghost of Liam and the Phantom of Milah, his face obscured just as theirs, with absent orbs of blackness where his eyes should've been. But now there was no mistaking the Spirit of Brennan Jones.

"Killian," the Spirit spoke. "Do you hear me? You are no villain. You are a good man."

"Compared to you, father?" he sneered. "Hardly a worthy measure. What? I'm a good man because I didn't abandon my children to servitude in payment of my debts?"

"Aye, son, you are a far better man than me," the Spirit replied. "But not for the things you haven't done."

"And what of the things I _have_ done?" Killian demanded. "Shall we list my sins? Might I suggest we sit before we begin. We'll be here for quite some time."

"I know what you did for Liam."

"I did nothing but fail and burden him, right up until the moment I goaded him into poisoning himself," he snapped. "He died in my arms for my stubbornness."

"We both know that isn't true," the Spirit said patiently. "And even if it were, I wasn't speaking of your older brother."

Killian's heart clenched as he recalled his half-brother, Liam Jones the Second, the boy he orphaned so that he could win the favor of the Evil Queen, that he might finally have his vengeance on the Crocodile. Was that not proof enough of his villainy? 

"You didn't abandon him," the Spirit continued. "You bargained with the Evil Queen _and_ the Queen of Hearts to ensure he had a good home and a loving family, no matter what was to come, be it the Darkest Curse ever known or the cruelest sorceress overtaking the kingdom and becoming its queen. No matter who won, you gave Liam everything: parents, friends, abundance, joy. All for a boy you never knew."

The Spirit paused for a second, shifting so as not to obstruct Killian's view of Emma outside the gates.

Then he continued, "Before you carried out your instructions to kill me, you told me you couldn't risk the Evil Queen discovering that you had spared me and sent me away. Yet, you risked everything you'd worked for - not to mention your own life - when you demanded that Liam live blessed in her cursed world. And you did it a second time when you demanded that same price from the Queen of Hearts. No villain would've done that, Killian. Your heart is true, son. It always has been."

The silence that followed only assured Killian that he belonged here, in Limbo, for his many sins.

"Tell me," the Spirit said. "If your heart was not true, do you think that woman out there would descend into hell itself to pull you out? You need not believe what I say. I have no right to ask for your trust. Heed not my word, then. You need only believe in _her_. Surely she deserves that much. But as for me, I will never forget what you did for your brother, which means you will always be a hero to me."

When the Spirit of Brennan Jones faded away, it left a sting of tears on Killian's face. He stumbled through the gate to Emma's side, his footing as slow and unsure as the cumbrous soul he bore. As he took hold of her hand, the sound of metal striking rock jolted the world. It was so startling that it freed Emma from the thrall of elm tree, that she and he could both turn around to see what they had escaped.

And there they were, two living souls who had stepped out of the Gates of the Underworld, just like Orpheus and Eurydice on their wedding day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Greek myth, dreams come through the Gates of Horn and Ivory. Prophetic dreams, those that embody truth, pass through the Gate of Horn; whereas, those of fanciful nonsense that beguile the dreamer pass through the Gate of Ivory. 
> 
> Virgil's _The Aeneid_ speaks of a tree near the entrance of the Underworld, around which are all the monsters long ago dispatched by Greek heroes, including the Hydra, the Chimera, and the Harpies. The tree is a great and shadowy elm, and false (ivory) dreams cling to its every leaf.


	35. The Eleusinian Mysteries

The gateway to the Underworld towered above them, a looming aperture hewn from stone and molten ore with bars as thick as trees. For all its many monstrous guardians and denizens, not one prevented Emma Swan and Killian Jones from emerging: not the three-headed hellhound Cerberus, nor the great sea beast Cetus, nor Hades, the Lord of the Underworld himself.

Any other couple would have stood outside the gates victorious, but Killian and Emma possessed an overwhelming clarity of the dangers they'd survived. Perhaps one sentry could've ensnared them and mired them in everlasting limbo, yet here they were, free and clear. Whatever the reason, Emma was fairly certain that nothing they had done inspired Sisyphus to rest, and there was no reason to think they had done anything so remarkable during their time in this terrible place. For all their suffering, she feared that their feat came too easily, that Hades had some other horror prepared for them.

"We should go," she said quietly. 

"Aye," he replied. "Best to avoid that tree while we're at it."

She nodded her head, yes before carefully turning so as not to fall under the thrall of the elm again. This area, for all appearances, was a great underground cavern with but one tunnel that led away from the entrance. They departed without a single backwards glance, and soon it opened to a river.

"Swan," Killian said as he came to a halt. "Perhaps we should discuss this before going any farther."

"Discuss what?" she asked.

"I can't return to the land of the living, not without a price," he reminded her. "And you can't split your heart for me. Not here. Wouldn't it be wiser for you to go ahead, petition the ferryman, and return home? Once you're there - "

"And risk Hades taking you back forever?" she asked. "No."

"It's a risk either way," he pointed out. "If you split your heart here - "

"I'm not leaving without you," Emma said stubbornly. "If we have to, then we'll get that boat guy to stop so I'm on one side, and you're on the other. But I'm not getting in that boat without you."

Killian knew there was no arguing with her, and while he wanted her to reconsider, she had already made up her mind. So he proffered his arm.

"Very well," he replied.

She wrapped her hands around the crook of his arm, and they began to walk along the winding river. It became cold and foggy, and then they saw the ferryman on the horizon, a vague shadow in the mists. 

They approached with caution, for though tales always claimed that he provided no such courtesy to mortals, Charon awaited. 

The events that next transpired will remain a secret to Emma and Killian until they pass together into the ever after, for some secrets must be kept from all souls while they live, even those souls that lived those who lived the secrets in question, unless the Author so inscribes the tale.

When they reached the boat that touched the bank of the River Styx, the ferryman waved them aboard. They thanked him, but he neither spoke nor looked upon them. Not wishing to provoke him, they held their peace as he slowly paddled them away.

The trip was far shorter than either imagined. Instead of bringing them to the lake, Charon carried them to the other side of the river and docked. He neither spoke nor signaled, yet his message was plain: disembark immediately.

Killian stepped out first and offered his hand to Emma, though he knew she needed no aid in getting to shore. Nevertheless, she accepted, and as soon as both her feet were on dry land, everything changed.

Instead of a dark, damp cavern, they stood in an immaculate pasture with grass so green it was blue. Purple mountains and red forests flanked either side, and the horizon hinted at a world of endless color and impossible splendor. 

"Oh no," Emma said. "Charon brought us to Morpheus's Realm."

"Only at our behest."

Three women stood before them, somehow withered and old but simultaneously young and beautiful. Killian recognized them, for they were the women who had impersonated Belle, Ruby, and Granny in their shared dream.

"I don't believe we've formally met," he said. 

"These are... the Fates," said Emma.

"The Moirai?" he repeated. 

The three sisters of Fate nodded their heads in unison, and though they made no formal introductions, Killian knew enough from the stories to identify each by name: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos.

"You cannot pass into the realms of the living without sacrifice," Clotho said. "Or, as it was agreed, a shared heart."

"We were told Emma should not split her heart in the Underworld," Killian replied.

"Emma cannot split her heart at all," Lachesis spoke. "She was born with great power, but even the Savior cannot work such magic on her own heart."

"But you said I could save him," Emma said, fear evident in her voice. "I did all this to save him. Are you telling me that was just a lie?"

"Hardly," Clotho replied.

"You cannot split your own heart," Atropos explained. "That is why we have met again, Emma Swan."

"Your love has been tested and proven true," said Lachesis. "There is but one more thing required of you."

"And what's that?" Killian asked warily.

"Not you," Clotho stated. "The Savior's heart is protected by True Love. There is no sorcerer, no magician, no deity powerful enough to take it from her."

"It must be freely given," Atropos added.

He watched as, without hesitation, Emma's hand disappeared inside her own chest, producing a bejeweled heart that was like a radiant ruby but infinitely more beautiful and precious.

Emma had felt someone's hand close around her heart when she battled Cora in the Enchanted Forest, but never before had she experienced the chilling effects of removing it from her body. Once extracted, her emotions became muffled and stagnant, like the numbness of depression but a thousand times over. Her mind reeled in response, and she felt a hungry desperation creep up on her, demanding that she replace the pilfered organ.

But she wouldn't. She couldn't. Not yet. 

Despite the fear, she turned to Killian and held out her heart. He looked at her with an adoration she had seen many times before, but this time there was this reverence that he reserved for moments of unsuspected revelations. Did he still not know that her heart belonged to him?

He carefully cradled her gift in his good hand, but he was speechless in the literal sense, unable to utter a word in thanks or admiration, though his thoughts were filled with nothing but. She had marched into the Underworld and made a deal with a deity for his sake, so there was never any doubt in his mind of her love. Yet her willingness to hand him such a priceless treasure remained a humbling surprise. Her trust in him truly knew no boundaries.

Atropos held out both her hands, revealing a golden thread in each. The one in her left hand was long and worn at odd points, as if it had been stretched and re-spun over and over again, leaving it more silver and brown than golden; whereas, the one in her right hand seemed a near-perfect specimen, frayed a little at the beginning but otherwise unmarred.

"Not long ago, I _finally_ cut your thread," Atropos said to Killian. She turned to Emma, "And for all the time you've been here, I have held yours, ready to cut it. I've never stayed my sheers, not for anyone."

"She is aptly named," Lachesis added. "But I have already measured your years, Emma Swan, and her blade shall not cut them down."

Clotho waved her hand, and the two threads whirled out of her sister's palms and hovered before her. All Killian and Emma could do was watched as the Fate began an intricate ritual, undulating her hands and pinching her fingers together, as if she worked with some invisible instrument floating before her.

As the two threads unraveled and the raw elements of their being showed through, Emma and Killian felt their very fiber shake, as if they were suddenly subject to the natural world's dangers more acutely. They both struggled for air as the beginning of their threads spread wide, and he tucked his good hand closer to his chest, lest he drop the heart so freely given to him. He was a brave man, but even he trembled before the Moirai because not only his life but also the life of the person he loved most stood at the mercy of Fates.

Seeking strength, he turned to Emma. Her eyes were already upon him, and there he saw such ferocity of determination that all fear vanished from his mind. They may live at the will of Fate itself, but his Swan's love existed at the mercy of nothing and no one.

And so he smiled. It was the kind of smile reserved for the birth of a child, newly born though not newly met by those who labored to bring that life into the world. It was a smile of joyous elation and pride with the smallest hint of exhaustion; just enough to prove that true bliss does not come from any kind of ignorance.

Then the two unraveled threads touched, the raw material entangling like frayed lines snagging against edges. Clotho twisted her fingers, and the spinning began in earnest, each entwining roll returning a little air to their lungs. 

Killian did not know when Emma's heart split in two, for he had brought it so close to his own chest to protect it that he couldn't see it properly. She, on the other hand, watched as the enchanted organ cleaved in two of its own accord. The sensation in her chest matched it unerringly, yet it was an oddly painless experience, like popping stiff knuckles on a cold day.

Then the two threads were no longer two, but one, and Lachesis flourished both her hands and sent Emma's now two-fold heart back where it belonged. Killian had expected a surge or rush of power, but all he felt was a subtle kind of relief.

Atropos casually approached Clotho and plucked the gold thread from her hands, examining it closely, as if to discover some imperfection or impurity that might doom it.

"One day, my sheers will cut even this thread," Atropos said.

"But not today," Lachesis added. 

"But not today," Clotho echoed.

The three women came together and smiled, their terrifying countenances and beautiful visages amplified tenfold for the expression.

"Till we meet again," all three said in unison. 

And the world went dark, and the memories from the moment they approached the ferryman to this vanished with it.

* * *

The next thing Killian Jones remembered was waking up as if from a bad dream. 

He was on his back inside a small, dimly lit room. His body ached as if he had been still for too long, and when he shifted to remedy the stiffness, he discovered that he wore neither his hook nor his brace. In fact, he was dressed in attire he had never before seen. He wore simple finery, the kind of clothing him might've pilfered as a pirate and sold for coin. It wasn't tough enough to stand up to a hard life at sea. He also discovered that all his adornments were missing, not just his hook. Every ring, necklace, and bauble he normally donned was gone. 

That was also when he realized that he was not only in a small room, but inside a rather snug box that appeared to be made of glass. He threw his arms up only to discover that the lid was surprisingly heavy and solid. It took all his strength to push it up and shift it even slightly. It took him several more toilsome maneuvers to slant the lid enough for egress.

He climbed out of his coffin into what appeared to be a larger tomb. There were no doors, and the only windows were twenty feet above his head. Emma was nowhere to be seen. 

"Swan?!" he yelled.

His voice echoed uselessly around the chamber. Only moments ago, she had been standing at his side by the River Styx. Had he gotten stuck in the Underworld? Or, worse, had _Emma_ been mired there trying to save him?

"Emma!" he shouted. "Emma!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Greek Myth, Persephone was captured by Hades and taken to the Underworld. Her mother, Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, searched everywhere for her missing daughter, and she became desperate to find her. She was so devastated that she inflicted a horrible drought that caused starvation and suffering, and Zeus, upon seeing the destruction she wrought, reunited Persephone and her mother, which resulted in the restoration of the earth's bounty, the first spring.
> 
> Unfortunately, Hades tricked Persephone into consuming pomegranate seeds, and by the rule of the Moirai, whoever consumed sustenance in the Underworld became doomed to remain there ever after. To satisfy both the distressed goddess of the harvest and the laws of Fates, Persephone was forced to spend at least four months each year in the Underworld.
> 
> Thus, every year in the fall, Persephone would descend into the Underworld, and her mother Demeter would again become miserable in her absence and no longer cultivate the earth. When her daughter returned to her, in her joy she would return the plenty of the earth in the next spring.
> 
> The mythology of Persephone and Demeter informed the Eleusinian Mysteries, sacred rites performed under secrecy annual for those initiated. Scholars believe that the rites included inducing visions of the afterlife and that its goal was to elevate the participants into the sphere of the divine.


	36. That Final, Spitting Head

Killian shouted until his voice went hoarse calling for Emma, even though he doubted anyone could hear him. The walls around him were crafted from the smoothest marble, with neither hole nor blemish, save for the beautifully hewn windows twenty feet up. Even if he had his hook, there was neither foothold nor knot with which to scale the height before him.

Exhausted, he surveyed the cavernous holding with wearier eyes, forcing himself to recognize this place for what it was: his tomb. He had been buried in a monument of sorts, laid to rest in a glass coffin much like the one that encased Snow White while she was under the thrall of the Sleeping Curse. Someone ignorant to Prince Charming's upbringing or Snow White's tumultuous survival as a bandit would mistakenly see this as an honorable but humble goodbye to a man beloved by their daughter. But he had known them, and their dedication and respect for his everlasting repose moved him deeply. They had provided fine stone and glass for his remembrance, and they dress him in garments befitting pirate and prince alike.

Though he, like any true sailor, hoped for a burial at sea, Emma's plan to restore him to this life required his body's preservation, lest his miraculous return come to a far-too-early end in some watery abyss as soon as he attempted to draw breath.

Killian felt a surge of gratitude toward Snow and Charming as he realized that they kept this monument to him until the day they died, waiting and hoping for her to return. His heart clenched at the thought, plagued by the guilt of costing two good people a lifetime with their beloved daughter. They never would've lost hope, but he knew even they must've hated him for his part in all this. After all, he was the reason their daughter was buried before them.

The pain doubled when he remembered Henry. She had missed his entire life toiling away in the Underworld to rescue him. How could the lad ever forgive him? How could _she_ ever forgive him?

Memories of his time in Storybrooke flooded him, and though many filled him with gladness, they ebbed away with sorrow. Not that long ago, he could scarcely recollect his own brother, let alone those he befriended in Storybrooke. Yet now that his true history was his to review at his leisure, he wanted nothing more than to forget, even if only for a little while, for the memories were more bitter than sweet. 

He collected himself by pacing. Emma had made her own choices, and self-loathing had no power to alter history. Charming and Snow were his friends, nigh his family, and they supported Emma's quest to save him, as did Henry. All he could do now was cherish the life he had with her. He owed it to her and every one of them besides. 

Killian wondered why they had buried him without his hook. Charming had once told him that, in his kingdom's tradition, they laid warriors to rest with their weapons and often with things of great personal value, such as missives of love or a prized ring. Surely that meant he should have not only his hook but his cutlass and baubles as well.

Then he recalled a story Snow White told him. Her father had been buried with a crown of solid gold set with diamonds the size of chestnuts. At the funeral, it adorned his head, but before they interred him in the Royal Family's Mausoleum, they stowed it in a concealed compartment. Her family taught her it was to ensure those they loved entered the next life unburdened, but she admitted that she had always suspected it was really to deter grave robbers.

He inspected the glass coffin, but for obvious reasons, it offered little in the way of concealment. He turned to the rise upon which the casket rested. Like the room itself, it was solid and flawless marble for all the eye could see. But then again, if the eyes could see it, it would be a poor place to hide something. He closed his eyes and palmed the surface, gliding his fingers across every inch of its surface. Sure enough, touch found a notch that his eyes missed, and when he leaned his weight into it, a small _click_ sounded.

His eyes opened as a drawer rolled out. It fit seamlessly into the top of the rise, its only visible points concealed by the casket that covered it. It held his brace, hook, and cutlass, as well as the fine leather jacket Emma had given to him as a gift. He pocketed the pouch that contained his rings and necklaces. The rest he donned.

When he had awoken, the rays of the sun had poured in from above, illuminating the entire space, but now they had begun to fade. He had done all he could to distract himself from the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, still buried with no means of escape. How long could he survive in this place without food or water?

And more importantly, where was Emma Swan?

It didn't feel right to perch upon his own coffin, so he sat in the corner and cast his eyes up at the windows, as if he might will them closer for staring. The only real entertainment he had was watching the shadow spread, their ever-changing patterns delightfully playful. 

At least it was a beautiful way to pass the time. 

He couldn't have been idle for more than half an hour before he heard a thunderous crash. He was on his feet in an instant, his heart pounding hard in his chest. The noise meant that anyone or anything could await him outside, but there was only one person who could make his heart race like this.

"Swan?" he called. "Swan!"

"Killian!"

Hearing her voice was like the sun on his face or the sweet tang of rum or even the lingering scent of the sea.

"Killian! Take cover!"

Glass shattered as Emma's foot collided with one of the windows. He stepped quickly to the other side of the room to avoid the cascade of shards. A makeshift rope ladder unfolded as it fell into the room. 

His Swan was bloody brilliant.

Climbing was never an easy task with his hook, but nevertheless, he made short work of it. His leather jacket protected his arms and torso as he pulled himself over the rake of edged glass into the brisk dusk air. Seconds later, he felt hands brushing the clinging shards from his hair and back before they dropped to his hips and spun him around.

Hearing her voice was a blessing, but seeing her face was the salve that cured a thousand wounds. He crushed her body against his, so strong was his embrace. Then her lips were on his, and the world vanished but for him and her, flooded with moonlight and passion. It was more than enough to overshadow the fact that he had just climbed out of his own grave along with all the sorrows he had contemplated there.

Killian would've happily lounged in her arms forever, and no doubt he would have, had it not been for a strong but playful nudge at his shoulder. Their kiss broke apart, and Emma's head nestled against his chest as he turned to see none other than the glorious Pegasus, his wings and coat a brilliant white against the green and gray of the graveyard. 

"Bloody hell, Old Boy," he mumbled. "I never thought I'd lay eyes on you again."

"He was my ride out," Emma explained, looking up at him with her cheek pressed against his jacket. "I remember asking the ferryman for a lift, and then... I was on the other side of the river, alone. I went looking for you and found him instead."

"I thought I'd lost you," he whispered, the words escaping his lips before he had time to consider their weight. "Right at the end, love. I thought..."

"We made it," she said. "We're home."

"Aye, and it's nearly dark," he said. "Perhaps we should see what's become of Granny's since we last were here."

Emma's brow furrowed, but she said nothing.

"Swan?"

"I flew over Main Street to get here," she explained. "It was empty."

"Perhaps they were all at supper," he suggested. "Or perhaps there was some manner of social event. Or some evil sorcerer to battle."

"So, still Storybrooke?" Emma asked.

"Aye, love. Shall we?"

* * *

Pure, unbridled euphoria swept through Emma as Pegasus leaped into the air. She had worried that Hades had returned her while exploiting some loophole to keep Killian in the Underworld despite the many trials they had endured. She clutched at him to strengthen the reassurance that only his presence could bring, relishing the sensation of his heartbeat against her skin, the rhythm in perfect tandem with her own. It seemed unreal, holding on to him again in this realm, more so than flying through the clear night sky.

Though she wouldn't vocalize her doubts, a persistent nagging shadow lingered in the back of her mind. She had expected things to feel... _different_ somehow. Emotions should feel more acute or tactile sensation, more real. But as it transpired, the Underworld was an impressive facsimile of this one, seeming as true and solid as a Land without Magic. For all she knew, Charon had ferried them to another part of the Underworld that was fashioned after Storybrooke to fool them into staying. How would they know the difference?

No. She didn't know how, but her heart told her that they were really and truly home. And no matter where they were, they were together. 

Pegasus touched down with a clatter that echoed ever after, filling the eerily noiseless thoroughfare. Before, Emma had only glimpsed in passing, but even then she felt how empty it was. It was only now, as she stood among the buildings that once comprised her home, that she really saw it for what it was. Every window, eave, and door was boarded up as if a particularly potent hurricane lurked on the horizon. The only exception was Granny's, which at first glance appeared unmarred by time, though a more careful look revealed covered furniture and a fine line of dust. Out of habit, Emma grabbed the handle as if to open it. To her surprise, a ripple of power poured through her like a surge of electricity, a tiny spark that warned of a stronger, more dangerous surge to be provoked upon further contact.

She yanked her hand away. Someone had spelled the door shut, and she imagined whoever did also cast a shield of protection. Her natural reaction to her curiosity was to investigate further, but before she could reach out and touch the glass, Killian's hand was over her wrist, gently halting her.

"Love," he said, concern evident in his voice. "You pulled you hand away, as if burned."

She blinked several times trying to clear her mind. She _had_ yanked her hand away because of the magic, but it hadn't hurt her. She turned her palm up as if to prove it, but instead she revealed inflamed skin that began to blister at the edges, as if seeing it and thinking it made it so.

The pain was so acute that she screamed, and her cry went on and on and on, unfading and uncurbed. He was suddenly all around her, as if trying to contain her agony and her wail, and she flinched away, stumbling backwards and crashing hard on her side, unable to break her fall because she was cradling her injured hand.

The ground jolted her back to her senses, so when Killian joined her seconds later, she didn't recoil from his support. 

"Magic," she blurted, somewhere between a curse and an answer to his unasked question.

"Swan?"

"Protection spell," she added for good measure. 

She turned away from the stinging in her hand, and the pain eased slowly, as if ignoring it speed her recovery. She took a steadying breath as she relaxed in Killian's arms, and she sank into his warmth and protection. She closed her eyes and let the feeling of safety wash over her, and their shared heart fluttered in response. They gasped at the mutual sensation, and her eyes snapped open in time to witness the pure elation on Killian's face, like he was standing at the prow of his ship in the fresh morning air. His eyes met hers, and his lips followed. It was like drinking that first draught of cool water after being stranded in the jungles of Neverland. She escalated it, using the kiss to tell him everything she couldn't find words for, so wrapped up in him that she didn't even feel it as her magic healed the wound on her hand and the bruise on her hip.

Killian pulled away and cupped her cheek, as if trying to examine her face for some sign that she was all right. She supported his hand with her own to reassure him. Then he helped her back to her feet. 

Storybrooke was a ghost town, but it still felt like home.

"Perhaps we should find another place to lay our heads," he suggested. 

"Yeah, it looks like someone boarded up everywhere else," she replied. "Hopefully they didn't spell every building, too."

She tugged his arm and, by virtue of habits that even the Underworld could not change, led him to her parent's loft. Luckily, the boards proved little hindrance to their entry. Even Pegasus slipped inside with ease, though the steed set off to a loft of his own on the other side of the building before Emma finished magicking the boards back in place, just in case there was something out there that needed to be kept out. 

The interior was gray with dust, and she was surprised to find that the door to the apartment was open, though it felt like no one had been there in years. The loft itself was empty, save for the covered dining room table. It seemed smaller now without her parent's furniture or fancy, and she wondered what had become of them when she failed to return home.

Killian scrounged through the cabinets and produced a can of black beans so old the expiration date was faded beyond reading. He continued his search in the other apartments and discovered a few more cans and a box of saltines that had expired many years ago, but as far as Emma could tell, they were still good.

Meanwhile, she looked through anything that she could find in the loft, hoping to find a calendar or diary or anything that could tell her what year it was and what happened to her parents. She found nothing but a few grocery lists in her mom's handwriting, which she tucked into her jacket pocket, unwilling to part with them. It was all she could do to stop herself from sobbing over them.

Emma activated the stove. There was no electricity, so she had to used magic. But Killian managed to make them an oddly satisfying meal of beans and vegetables on saltines. Afterward, when they went looking for a place to sleep, they came across Emma's bed. It was odd, as her parent's bed and Henry's bed were both gone, so why was hers here? Had they kept the loft forever in the family name, awaiting her return? Or was the thought of returning to remove it too much for them? 

She choked on the thought, but she didn't want Killian to see, so she busied herself with the linens she discovered stored under the frame. At least they'd have a proper bed to sleep in tonight. He assisted her with the sheets, but they were barely halfway through when a hideous, rumbling roar spilled out from high above them.

They abandoned the blissful domesticity and raced to the window to see a great beast in the sky with the leather wings of a bat. Its eyes glowed red the darkness, but they paled in comparison to the fireball that erupted from its mouth. The illumination lit up the creature's face, which was startlingly human, as well as its lion-like body.

"Bloody hell," Killian said.

"I guess we know why everybody left," Emma remarked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Greek hero Heracles was tasked with slaying the Lernaean Hydra, a many-headed dragon. Whenever he cut off one of the beast's heads, two more grew back in its place, but he soon discovered that searing the stump after decapitation prevented the creature from growing two more. Unfortunately, the Hydra had one immortal head that could never die, so after Heracles cleft it from the body, it still hissed and snapped at him. He buried it deep under a heavy rock to prevent it from harming anyone else.


	37. An Elegy to the Erinyes or, the Labors of Heracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's note** : I only just realized that I haven't uploaded the last chapters of this fic, even though it was supposed to be done last year. I'm not exactly sure how I dropped the ball here, but I wanted to apologize to anyone waiting for an update on this fic. I plan on getting the last chapters out by the end of April. Apologies for the very belated update. I hope you enjoy the latest installment!

Emma watched the shadowy silhouette swoop through the night sky, periodically unleashing fireballs as it descended into the distance. As soon as it disappeared somewhere beyond the clock tower, her mind began to race with possibilities and intrigue.

The dark would work against them, but with Pegasus as their steed, no beast could evade them by air or land. A familiar surge crept into her blood, pumping her heart a little faster and infusing her with a profound second wind. She turned on her heel toward the door, grabbing Killian's arm as she went.

But, as it transpired, he was an anchor, unwavering and unmoving. Their intersecting forces spun her away from the exit and back around to him. 

She said, "If we leave now - "

"Leave?" he interrupted. 

"If we don't go now, it's going to get away." 

"Love, we don't even know what it is," he pointed out. "And it's the dead of night."

"Which means it'll be sleeping," she countered.

"Aye, unless the flying, fire-spewing beast is nocturnal," he said. "Swan, we've only just returned to the land of the living. Perhaps we should leave the monster till morning."

The bubbling, raw energy inside her pulsated under her skin, pushing her to insist upon her current course of action, but as soon as she opened her mouth, her argument died upon her tongue. She had her magic and he, his cutlass, but the creature spouted flame as easily as yawning. It wasn't the kind of thing to face with no rest and no plan after a very, very long journey, not when they yet had safer and surer options.

Killian wrapped his arm around her as he observed the passionate purpose in her eyes slowly recede. Her reply was painted across the lines of her brow, leaving no need for her to speak them.

"Ever the Savior, Swan," he remarked.

She smiled and said, "You're right. Whatever it is will still be there tomorrow."

Relieved, his mind returned to the many imminent tasks at hand, such as making the bed, so he failed to see the mischievous look that blossomed on Emma's face. Thus, he was thoroughly surprised when she whirled him about, took hold of his lapels, and yanked him down into a ferocious kiss.

He regained his footing with hardly a misstep, reciprocating her passion with equal fervor. On occasions like these, his stomach normally performed a series of backflips, but this time, his heart matched it movement for movement in a sensational samba that seared his blood, stiffening his member and flushing his skin.

She relished how malleable his lips felt against hers, light and soft and inviting. He shifted back, adjusting as he snaked his arms down and around her, and she followed him, rising to her tiptoes to maintain her grip.

Every impression was amplified: deeper and stronger, hotter and faster, gentler and brighter. If either party spared a moment's thought as to the reason, they surely would have concluded that their ascent from the Underworld was the cause, and they would have no way of knowing - not in the thick of things, at least - that it had no bearing on the breadth or depth of their sensations. No, it was not the realm, but rather their singular heart, freshly split between them, connecting them with every thump and flutter.

As things were, however, neither wasted even a second considering the cause of their newly-acute pleasure, for the voracity of it swept them up in a wild and uncompromising storm of lips, tongues, and teeth.

In a whirlwind of tangled limbs, they shed the barriers between them, coming together and breaking apart like the endlessly rolling waves of the tide. By the time his brace and hook clattered to the floor, their nude forms were covered with a sheen of sweat from their efforts, panting hard yet unwilling to release one another to catch their respective breaths.

A tickle of mischief ran up her spine, inspiring a playfulness that she hadn't mustered since she last stood in this very room all those years ago. Emma coiled her hand around the base of his cock, enveloping him with a marvelous heat and the perfect amount of pressure, which escalated as she slid up and down in smooth, slow undulations. He jolted in joy, his head falling back as a deep moan involuntarily erupted from his throat.

Her mouth descended upon the sensitive skin of his neck, leaving a scarlet mark on the pulse point at its base before she trailed her tongue along the line of his collarbone.

Overwhelmed by her merciless onslaught, Killian could do little more than vocalize his appreciation over the sumptuous sounds of suction springing from her lips. She continued her ministrations, descending lower and lower, until she knelt before him, nibbling at his protruding hipbones.

When he finally marshaled enough strength to look down at her, she met his eyes. Witnessing her heavily lidded eyes blown wide with want, he became desperate to know what manner of noises he might draw from those devilishly skilled lips of hers. The thought alone was enough to end him.

Killian struck like a hawk capturing prey, swooping down and lifting her to her feet as he curled her around and brought her back flush against his chest. His cock bounced off the pert lobes of her ass before being trapped against the small of her back, forcing him to smoother his groan of delight against the shell of her ear as he sucked hard.

Determined to repay her in kind, he held her tightly in place, his left arm across her shoulders and his right over her hips. He showered her radiant skin with his attentive and capable mouth, drawing rasping gasps from her chest as she wriggled against him. She reached her arms behind herself, her hands exploring his flanks with hurried, demanding fingers, only to discover her true quarry inaccessibly pinned between them. So she grabbed the sinewy flesh of his thighs and ass, anchoring herself to him. Her breath steadily became more and more ragged, but never quite elevating to the moan he desperately longed to hear.

He raised his left arm until the crook of his elbow cradled her chin. Then his right hand dipped lower, casually exploring the supple planes of her thighs, his finger gradually roaming inward with feather-light touches. Yet still, she let no utterance of passion pass from her, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth to prevent even the quietest of moans from escaping.

Spurred on by her challenge, he eased his hand over the blond curls that concealed her sex, then down to the sweet opening beneath, lubricating his finger with the abundance of her arousal before slipping up to her engorged bud, applying the slightest friction possible. She gasped as she shuttered once, twice, and then she began to roll her hips against his fingers.

He withdrew his hand, and she frantically clamped her legs together, keeping him where she needed him most.

" _Killian_ ," she pleaded.

He circle her clit languidly, applying pressure to the sensitive bundle of flesh, and finally - _finally_ \- the flood gates opened, and the dulcet tones of Emma Swan's pleasure filled the room, a fine and frenzied music to his ears. She grinded her hips against him as his name fell from her lips as a curse and a prayer, driving him to plunge two fingers into her tight, sopping-wet quim while continuing his meticulous ministrations on her clit.

He exacted a long, deep orgasm from her. She burrowed into the taught muscles of his ass, marking him with bruises in the shape of her fingertips. Her every muscle clenched in agonizing pleasure as she came, then suddenly relaxed in unison moments later, leaving her boneless against him for support.

How long Emma remained slumped helplessly against him, neither could say, nor could she speak to the interval she felt afloat, above everything, the sweet bliss of safety dovetailing with the culmination of passion. The only certainty was that it - like all mortal things - did not last forever.

At some point, Emma's faculties became attuned to her surroundings, such as the sure and steady friction Killian pressed into the vault between her legs and the intricate, delicate patterns his mouth wove against her skin, as if he might indelibly scribe the words 'beautiful', 'marvelous', and 'perfection' with his tongue.

Awareness - comprehensive and sharp - returned to her in a single, fitful moment when Emma shifted her weight to her heels and felt his stiff cock against her back. Though he had driven her to an unexpected high only minutes prior, she suddenly ached for him twice as hard. It felt as of an age had come and gone since she had last felt him buried deep within her, pleasure budding with his punishing thrusts, bringing them together with smart, wet slaps of flesh.

The thought stoked her already-roaring flames of want. By some cruel trick of nature, however, she found herself unable to speak, and therefore, without means or recourse to describe - to _beg_ \- her desires, or, indeed, any manner in which to articulate the deep and terrible well of her need thereof.

She shifted forward, and, finding his grip slack, continued until her forearms rested on the half-made bed. Then she whipped her hair over one shoulder and cast her eyes over the other, hoping her actions beseeched that which she could not speak.

Killian had, on many occasions, described her as _an open book_ , and, if his expression was any indication, his perceptions had not failed her. His eyes were black with naught but the faintest sliver of their true cerulean hue, and his face bespoke both of his abiding, unrelenting appetite and of his delight at her wordless request. 

He slumped over her and pressed his lips to the base of her spine, breathing in the scent of her sweat and sex before he continued up her back, kissing each vertebra deliberately, delighting in the salt of her skin and her tiny groans of impatience.

He swept the few stray tresses of her hair carefully to one side as he licked between her shoulder blades. He shied away from her face, following the turn of her spine so he could kiss each inch of the back of her neck.

Then, in stark contrast to his leisurely pace, he captured her lips, demanding entry to every corner of her mouth, and she sighed as she gave herself over to his dominating kiss, relishing the heat of his body covering hers as he consuming her gasps of pleasure. 

He followed the well-learned lines of her figure, lining himself up without abandoning their kiss, swallowing their matching moans as he plunged into her slick, warm center with a single thrust of his hips. They broke apart to breath, pressing their foreheads together as they acclimated to their renewed connection, shuttering in tandem as ripples of pleasure flowed between them.

"Bloody hell," he whispered.

Perhaps he waited a moment too long, for she gyrated her hips as she clenched around him, drawing a string of breathless curses from him as he nearly collapsed onto her. She was tighter than a vice and simultaneously wanting and welcoming, and though they had shared passions countless times before, this felt new and bold and fragile. 

Killian shifted his hips back until only the tip of his cock remained sheathed. He slid back inside with a smooth, gradual motion, forcing himself rein in his need to pound into her mercilessly. He continued to thrust at a tepid pace, grinding his teeth in restraint, but soon she was meeting him with thrusts of her own, quickening the pleasure, all the while unleashing the lowest pleas of ' _Killian... Killian, please._ '

With that, his resolve for tender lovemaking snapped, and he began to pump into her in earnest. The pace quickly became punishing as the room filled with the slick slaps of his flesh meeting hers in a rough tempo underscored by lengthy moans, both too far gone to shout the other's name.

Euphoria welled up and boiled over. Emma could feel the hailing quiver of her cunt enveloping him, just as he could feel the delicious plunge of his cock as it hit that spot inside her that made her see stars. Neither had any time to sort through the barrage of these newly shared sensations, for the rush of experiencing both sides of pleasure - at once giving and receiving, being penetrated and penetrating - bought their ecstasy far more swiftly than either had expected, tossing them into the throes of an abrupt and simultaneous orgasm that overwhelmed them like a Northedge storm.

Emma and Killian returned to some semblance of themselves coiled together on the now unmade bed, awash in contentment. The only interruption to their bliss was a chill, accompanied by the faintest trembling shiver from Emma. Killian had enough presence of mind to procure the discarded blankets from the floor to cover them before he followed his love into a deep and restful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Erinyes were female deities of vengeance who inhabited the Underworld, sometimes referred to as the Furies.
> 
> In Greek myth, the hero Heracles was tasked with ten labors as penance for killing his wife and children during a fit of insanity induced by the goddess Hera. In the end, he completed twelve labors, for two of his earlier labors, slaying the Hydra and cleaning the Augean Stables, were disqualified because he received assistance.


End file.
